


Elementary 05: The Cramer Street Years (1878-1883)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Castiel's Trenchcoat, Cramer Street, Destiel - Freeform, Espionage, F/M, Gay Sex, Impersonation, Jealous Dean, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Marking, Minor Character Death, Robbery, Rough Sex, Sex in a rugby shirt, Theft, sex on a train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4316121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case 10. SWAN SONG (The Case Of The Unpowdered Nose)<br/>Case 11. FALLEN IDOLS (The Case Of John Vincent Harden)<br/><b>Case 12. ROCK AND A HARD PLACE (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Musgrave Ritual')</b><br/><b>Case 13. A VERY SUPERNATURAL CHRISTMAS (formerly 'A Study In Scarlet')</b><br/>Case 14. NIGHTMARE (The Manor House Case)<br/><b>Case 15. FAITH (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Resident Patient')</b><br/>Case 16. CROSSROAD BLUES (The Case Of Morgan The Poisoner)<br/><b>Case 17. OF GRAVE IMPORTANCE (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box')</b><br/><b>Case 18. YELLOW FEVER (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Yellow Face')</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Cas and I spent five years at Cramer Street, where Miss Letitia Hellingly was our landlady. She was quiet enough, and had the most definite advantage of not being her overbearing (in every sense) sister, Mrs. Evadne Hall. Quite frankly, the less we saw of that lady, the better!

Cramer Street runs parallel to Marylebone High Street, and is itself just a small connecting road between Moxon Street in the north and St. Vincent Street in the south. The road is barely the length of a school athletics track, and we were fortunate enough to live towards the northern end, from where it was but a short walk to Paddington Street Gardens. Sir Christopher Wren may have been frustrated in his plans to rebuild London as a city of open boulevards after the Great Fire two centuries before, but there were and still are many green oases to enjoy. It is also, as I have said, reasonably close to the Bloomsbury Surgery, where I was slowly increasing both my workload and standing.

It was during this time that the Strand magazine first took an interest in my scribblings, and I was able to present the wonders of my genius friend's deductive powers to the rest of the world. Not, I might add, without some hiccups along the way; he was at first cool towards my efforts, but quickly came to accept them.

Since we spent over twice as long here as at Montague Street, I suppose it was only inevitable that there were more cases published, and five stories from our time here made the original canon, including Yellow Fever, the final case herein which brought the home everyone associates with Cas today, 221B Baker Street, into our lives. I have found four more stories I deem worthy of addition to that canon, including the bizarre case of the lady with the unpowdered nose, and the highly embarrassing (for me, at least) Manor House case.

On with the stories!


	2. Case 10: Swan Song (1878)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the adventure of the unpowdered nose'.

I

It may seem surprising, in view of later developments arising from it, that our first important case tackled from our new home in Cramer Street was not included in the original canon of works. However, the lady who brought the case to our attention was, rightly I suspect, fearful that any further iteration of the events on the Thanet Coast that cold December in 'Seventy-Eight might lead to people wishing to visit the house in which she then still lived, and where the gruesome killing had taken place. Even had she not had the ties she had with my friend, I would have respected her wish for privacy. Now she has passed on to a better place however, I can reveal to the world the strange case of the the unpowdered nose.

It was our first Christmas in our new lodgings and, I must confess, I had gone more than a little overboard in decorating our main room. I had overheard one of the maids remark that 'looks like Christmas exploded in there', and I did not know whether to be offended or pleased. I had never had much time for such fripperies whilst growing up, and our last landlady had been very firm against us making any alterations to our rooms, so I had had to make do with a very few decorations. I had more than made up for that now, though.

I was returning to our rooms one day in early December, feeling bitterly cold despite my coat. I really needed a new one, but as usual my straitened financial circumstances meant it would have to wait. I was still mulling over my most recent (and depressing) bank statement when I walked through the door and unbuttoned my coat....

… And found myself wrapped in the arms of a six-foot muscular fellow alpha, who seemed intent on kissing the life out of me! My expression of surprise rapidly turned into a moan of pleasure as my senses were assaulted, his wicked tongue working my mouth whilst his insanely warm body rapidly heated me up. He pulled back and smiled at me.

“Look up”, he whispered.

I did so, and saw a small sprig of mistletoe had been hung from the door-frame, possibly about the only decoration in the place that I had not been responsible for. I grinned.

“You keeping with tradition, Cas?” I asked, not letting go of my own human heater.

“One must follow tradition, Dean”, he said firmly, a twinkle in his impossibly blue eyes. “'Tis the season, you know.”

I chuckled, and kissed him back, this time working my tongue into his mouth. He let out a contented sigh, and seemingly tried to get even closer to me.

“Am I going to get this sort of greeting every time I return?” I teased. “Because if so, I can go out and come in again.”

He looked at me darkly.

“Oh, you will be coming all right, Dean”, he smirked. “Later, though. I am expecting a lady visitor, and she is not the sort of person who should be exposed to such scenes.”

“I can always expose.....”

He silenced me with a look. I chuckled.

“Who is coming?” I asked, reluctantly letting go of him. At least I was warm now.

“Mrs. Olivia Fulready”, he said, brushing himself down. “She is an old family friend, as well as being the sister to the midwife who actually delivered me into this world, Mrs. Garsdale. Mrs. Fulready wrote to me last week asking to come and see me whilst she was in London; I presume her sister's recent death is the reason.”

“She wishes to consult you over the death?” I asked.

“I would presume so”, he said. “She is due in half an hour, otherwise I would be taking you to your room and using that mistletoe to kiss you in several other places.”

He walked over to his chair. I looked after him hopefully.

“No, Dean.”

“You weren't even looking at me!” I protested.

“I know the way your mind works!” he teased, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Later.”

I pouted.

II

Mrs. Olivia Fulready was, of course, wearing widow's weeds. Cas had told me that her husband had died some years back, and that she owned a fair-sized house on the sea-front at Margate in Kent, where she rented out several rooms. In the summer season her late sister Mrs. Garsdale would move in with her and rent her own house out to holidaymakers, sharing the income generated. Mrs. Fulready carefully took her seat and pulled back her veil.

“I have come to you today”, she said in a low, melodious voice, “because of my sister's murder.”

I started. Cas, of course, remained calm.

“The London papers have been mostly interested in this latest Afghan war”, he said smoothly. “Of course I read the report of your sister's death. I can only say that it struck me as singularly uninformative. Am I to assume that some detail or other was deliberately withheld?”

She nodded, looking around fearfully almost as if she feared someone would be listening in on our conversation.

“It was incredibly strange”, she said. “Fortunately Sergeant Greene was incredibly helpful, and made sure that certain... information did not reach the press. He felt that if they knew the full details, people would descend on the the house even more than they did. A murder is bad enough, but this.....”

She tailed off. Cas poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her, then placed a reassuring hand on her wrist.

“Be assured, Mrs. Fulready, that we will do everything in our power to help you”, he said firmly. “But we need all the facts. What did the press not get told, exactly?”

She took a deep breath before speaking.

“I was the one who found her”, she said quickly, as If getting the words out faster was less painful for some reason. “Alice, you see, had taken up with the local theatre group; an odd bunch, but harmless, I thought. I was going to go into town to do some shopping, and she was to share my cab and then walk the short distance to the theatre. Except when I went in.... she was dead!”

“And the unusual circumstance?” Cas pressed gently. She shuddered.

“She had done her face up with that awful white powder she used for the play, or whatever they were doing”, our visitor said. “Her face was white, except for her nose, which was not done. I thought that odd. And then, it hit me! He might still be in the house!”

“'He'?” I asked, confused.

“The killer!” she hissed.

Cas pressed his fingers together and thought for a moment.

“I have several questions which, I think, you can answer”, he said. “First, was it raining?”

She looked surprised at that, as was I, but answered readily enough.

“Yes”, she said. “Almost sleet; I got quite wet just running from the cab to the house. But why is that important?”

“I find it odd that your sister would apply face-powder, let alone leaving her nose undone, and then walk through rain”, Cas said. “It is not something one can leave on for any length of time, so surely she must have realized that when she applied it. It seems irrational. Another question, if you please, and I must be a little blunt. Was your sister wealthy?”

Our visitor blushed.

“She owned her house and made ends meet”, she said carefully.

Cas sighed.

“Come, Mrs. Fulready”, he said gently. “I can only help you if you are completely honest with me. What are you withholding?”

She looked down at the rug.

“After she assisted at your birth”, she said slowly, “she went to work for the Huttons up in Yorkshire. A lovely family, their youngest needed constant care or something. She was there for nearly fifteen years before the break-in.”

“Break-in?” Cas asked.

“The Hutton Diamonds”, she said. “She was lucky it happened on her half-day, or she would have been killed along with the rest of them.

I remembered that story from ten or so years back. A gang of thieves had broken into the old house, and killed the entire family. Although they had been later caught and hung, the diamonds had never been found. 

“You are not suggesting that your sister was in any way involved?” I asked incredulously. She laughed.

“Alice was as shocked as I was by the whole affair”, she said. “You may remember that the men persuaded a local lad who worked at the stables to let them in, and he got hard labour as a result. No, all she got from fifteen years of dedicated service was that hideously ugly set of figurines she always displayed so proudly on her mantle-piece.”

Cas looked up sharply.

“Figurines?” he said a little too loudly. “What of?”

She looked surprised at his reaction, but answered.

“A set of toby-jugs, each of a famous author”, she said. “William Shakespeare was the only one I recognized.”

She looked distracted as she spoke.,/p>

"What is it?" Cas asked.

"I just realized what was odd about the house the other day", she said. "My sister had moved the jugs to the dresser, but there were only four of them."

“We must go there at once”, Cas said firmly, much to my surprise. “Mrs. Fulready, what are your plans for the rest of today?”

“I have an appointment with the lawyers, Sutch and Grendle, in Whitehall”, she said. “I was going to stay with a friend and take in a show, but if you think...”

“It is probably best for you to continue with those plans”, Cas said, a little more calmly. “The doctor and I will travel to Margate by the first available train; I assume you have the keys to your sister's house. If you leave us your address, we will meet you there tomorrow.”

She nodded at that, thanked him and left. 

+~+~+

Sergeant Henriksen looked at us from across his desk. Even with my limited (as in virtually non-existent) detective skills, I could see that Cas' mention of the Hutton Killings had sparked something.

“Many of us remember that little incident”, he said, sounding surprisingly bitter. “The local press tried to fix the blame on the village constable, who was seeing one of the maids in the house. Eventually of course we got the right man, but they didn't help. What's your interest in the case?”

“The missing diamonds”, Cas said calmly. “Something that has crossed my path suggests as to where they may have been hidden. What can you tell me about the aftermath of the case?”

The sergeant scratched his bald head, I wondered privately if he polished it; the glare of the light through the window off it was so strong.

“Constable Kellett left the force once the fuss had died down”, he said. “Went abroad somewhere; I don't know where. The gang, as you know, all got the drop, and their accomplice was given hard labour. I think it was for ten years, but I may be wrong. It only stayed in the press' line of fire for so long because of that God-awful Mrs. Silverman!”

“Who was that?” Cas asked.

“The colonel's sister. She expected to inherit the whole estate, but the old buffer surprised her at the last, and his will left everything except a few family trinkets to charity. Oh, and there were the usual bequests to servants; small cash sums, that was all.”

“She pursued the local constable as being involved?” Cas asked.

“She did”, the sergeant said bitterly. “Mean old cow! Funny thing was as I recall, she did herself no favours in the end. A local reporter called round to talk to her about the case, and whilst he was there, she struck one of her own servants. The reporter's brother was in service, and he wrote the whole thing up. I think she moved somewhere else soon after, though I don't remember where. She was separated from her husband at the time, and I don't wonder at it!”

III

Our coach was, I suppose, fairly comfortable, though for what Cas had paid it should have been. We did not have long to wait before the guard's whistle blew, and our train started with a sharp jerk. I smiled at Cas, who looked back at me. 

With the Look. I gulped.

“Stand up, and lower your trousers and underpants”, he growled. 

It was not a request, but an order. I hastened to obey, glad we were now doing some little speed, and fervently praying that the next station was a long way away. He placed one of the cushions on the floor and knelt on it, then took something out of his pocket. It was a sprig of mistletoe.

I stared in astonishment, as he held it above my rapidly hardening member with one hand, then proceeded to manhandle me to full hardness so fast, it almost hurt. My eyes watered for a moment, before my senses returned enough to realize he was kissing my cock all along its length, just beneath the mistletoe. I reached up and grabbed the luggage-rack bar for support, and groaned.

He chuckled darkly.

“I love watching you come apart like this”, he growled. “Piece by delicious piece. All mine!”

I let out the sort of noise one normally associates with someone sitting unexpectedly on a gerbil, my body jerking as he swallowed me whole. And heavens to Betsy, the man had no gag reflex.

No. Gag. Reflex.

It wasn't just the gently rolling of the carriage, but I was jerking as if I was being repeatedly hit by lightning. He continued to alternate between sucking me down whole and kissing tenderly along my length, and I just had to stand there and let him (all right, I didn't have to, but it would have taken a stronger alpha than I to have tried to put a stop to this divine torture). Finally however, after I knew not how long, he brought me to orgasm one more time and I came violently, all over my shirt. He sniggered.

“Never did like you in that shade of brown”, he said. “Now you can buy a new shirt that suits you better. Green, like your eyes, I think.”

“Mwah?” I continued to stand there, whilst he sat down calmly opposite me.

“Dean”, he reminded me, “we are approaching the station at Swanley. Perhaps you would like to sit down?”

I managed to half-pull my lower vestments back up and collapsed weakly back onto the chair, praying that we would be undisturbed for a few more stations. From my shredded appearance, I might as well have been carrying a huge sandwich-board with 'I just had sex' written on it in big letters.

+~+~+

The bastard did it again on the next stretch down to Chatham, but after that the stations were too close together. Which was good, because I needed at least an hour before I could be even semi-functional again!

+~+~+

Arriving in the town, we made our way first to Margate police station, where we found a Constable Truelove, a young and athletic-looking blond alpha. I prayed silently that I did not look as much of a wreck as I felt.

“You'd be the second lot of folks we've had showing an interest in the case today”, he said, clearly wary.

Cas looked at me in concern.

“And who was the first?” he asked.

“Some sharp-eyed woman wearing a real fur”, he said. “Claimed to be Mrs. Garsdale's sister, but I know she only had one, and that's Mrs. Fulready.”

“When was this?” Cas asked.

“A few hours ago”, the constable said. “Sergeant Greene said he'd take her round there, but he came back a couple of hours later. Apparently Mrs. F. went to London for the day.”

“We need to see the house at once”, Cas said urgently.

“I'll get Fred – Constable Golding – to take you there”, Constable Truelove said. “Sergeant Henriksen wired from London about you, so I know you're all right.”

He called through a door to the back, and another blond alpha, looking uncannily like the first constable, emerged and smiled at us. I felt even more dishevelled than before, and we waited by the door for the new constable to fetch the keys.

“Dean”, Cas whispered, “did you bring your gun?”

“Yes”, I whispered back. Ever since the Khrushnic case, I had taken to being armed on all our little adventures. “Do you think I will need it?”

We were interrupted by the returning Constable Golding, who had a frown on his face.

“The sergeant must still have them”, he said. "We can't....”

“How far away is the house?” Cas interrupted. 

“About ten minutes' walk. Why?”

Cas did not answer, but almost ran out of the door. By the time the two of us had caught him up, he had already secured a cab and was clambering inside it.

“Hurry!” he called out.

I thought a cab ride for a half-mile journey was something of an indulgence, but did not have time to comment, for Cas was busy extracting an address from the constable, which he presumably gave to the cab-driver judging from our sudden movement. At least it was not London, so the traffic allowed us to quickly build up speed.

“Constable”, Cas said urgently, “when we reach our destination, I am probably going to have to ask you to do something. It is imperative, for your life and your future career in the police service, that you follow it at once, no matter how strange it may seem. Do you understand?”

“But sir...?”

“Do you understand?”

Cas could be overbearingly commanding to people other than me when the need arose. The young constable buckled at once.

“Yes sir”, he said firmly.

“Good”, Cas said. “Because we are almost there.”

The cab came to a halt just seconds later, and Cas was first out, the two of us scrambling to our feet behind him. The constable looked around in confusion.

“This is not the Esplanade”, he objected.

“No”, Cas said. “It is not the late Mrs. Garsdale's house we need; it is Mrs. Fulready's. And we need to be quick!”

He hurried up the garden path, and paused to look at the front door, which was closed. I was about to ask if he needed our help when he pulled something from his pocket that looked like a sort of screwdriver, and did something with the lock. The door opened at once, and he hurried inside, us close behind him and my hand on my weapon inside my pocket.

As with so many houses of the type, the door opened into a long hallway, and we were not alone for long. Two people emerged almost simultaneously, a well-dressed woman from a door to the left and a man much closer, from a door to our right.

IV

Constable Truelove gasped.

“Sarge?”

“What are you doing here?” his superior asked. “And who are these gentlemen?”

“We are friends of Mrs. Fulready's”, Cas said smoothly, “and you, Sergeant Greene, are under arrest. Constable, cuff him.”

I have to credit the young constable that, amazingly, he did what Cas told him without a single protest. The sergeant was shocked, only spinning out of the other policeman's grip once the handcuffs were secure.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded angrily. “I'll have you sacked!”

“I rather think that will be your fate”, Cas said with a smile. “And Mrs. Silverman, that dress looks very expensive. It would be shame if the good doctor here had to put a bullet into it because you continued your sidling towards the rear exit. Constable?”

The constable strode forward and cuffed the lady as well. She was in her fifties, with very obviously dyed hair and a sharp, unpleasant expression.

“You've got nothing on us!” she hissed.

“On the contrary” Cas smiled pleasantly. “I have two criminals, and I am fairly sure that I know the whereabouts of the Hatton Diamonds. The two of you can look forward to an uncomfortable night in the police cells, and when Mrs. Fulready returns tomorrow, we shall see what we shall see.”

+~+~+

It was the following morning. Cas had wired Mrs. Fulready as to developments, and she had replied that she was to catch the first train of the morning and be home before lunch. We had spent a passable night in a sea-front hotel, kept awake by the seagulls amongst other things. 

Amongst other things. Apparently all that ozone made a certain blue-eyed alpha even hornier than usual. I made a note to see if we could get more cases on the coast.

Mrs. Fulready arrived at the house at half-past eleven, and Cas insisted on ordering in a lunch for the three of us and the two constables before he would explain everything. I noticed that he had lined up the five toby-jugs on the window-sill, and thought that if anything, our client had understated their sheer awfulness.

“Now”, Cas began, “this case all started with the Hutton Diamond robbery, and we all know about that. Except, unfortunately, what we know is not the whole story.”

“Eh?” Constable Truelove said.

“It was originally assumed, especially by the Yorkshire press, that the local police constable was involved in allowing the killers to gain access to the property”, Cas said. “This, as we know, turned out not to be the case. However, the second person who came under suspicion, a local lad of limited intelligence, was also innocent. Unfortunately someone took advantage of his lack of intelligence and made sure the evidence pointed squarely at him. That someone was Mrs. Silverman.”

“How can you know that?” I asked.

“The timings”, he said. “Her husband had left her just before the robbery, so she was financially desperate. She was the only surviving blood relative of Colonel Hutton, so she assumed – wrongly, as it turned out – that if he died, she would inherit all. I am not usually vindictive, but I would love to have been there when the will was read, and she realized that she was getting next to nothing!”

I chuckled at that. The others smiled too.

“However”, Cas went on, “there was the matter of the famous Hatton Diamonds. It was assumed that one of the thieves hid them somewhere, and that knowledge of their whereabouts went with him to his grave.”

“Did he not?” Mrs. Fulready asked.

“Yes and no.”

We all stared at him.

“”The late Mrs. Hutton was no fool”, Cas smiled. “She suspected some sort of attempt might be made on the jewels one day, though sadly she did not foresee that it would cost her her own life, and that of her husband. So she did what so many people do in such circumstances. She had a set of fake diamonds made and made a great show of locking them away securely. The real diamonds, she hid somewhere fare more ingenious. Only two people knew of their whereabouts.”

“Two?” I asked.

“Her husband, the colonel, and the woman who was her most reliable servant, the late Mrs. Garsdale.”

“Where are they?” Constable Truelove asked.

Cas smiled.

“Let me continue with the story for the moment”, he said. “I do not know how, but Mrs. Silverman realized something of what had been done. Presumably one of the criminals who took the fakes realized what they were, and before he was hung he must have told a fellow inmate, who on his own release sought out Mrs. Silverman and offered to 'share the loot' for his knowledge. She then knew that the items were in Mrs. Garsdale's possession, though not exactly where.”

“She tracks down her quarry, and waits her chance to strike. However, on the day in question, it chances that her victim sees her coming up the path to the house. Poor Mrs. Garsdale knows she is doomed, so her last thought is to leave some sort of clue as to the whereabouts of the diamonds, a clue that will hopefully be uncovered by someone other than her killer.”

“When Mrs. Fulready told me about the collection of toby-jugs based on famous authors, I at once saw the connection. If I was right, then one of them should be of the French author, Cyrano de Bergerac. Upon checking them after the arrests of the two criminals, I found that was indeed the case.”

“What about the sergeant?” Constable Golding put in.

“I believe that Mrs. Silverman took him to the house then offered to, as they say, 'split the loot' with him once it was found”, Cas said.

“But what about the other criminal?” I asked.

“Most probably buried somewhere in Mrs. Silverman's garden”, Cas said dryly. “I suspected the sergeant because of the distances involved; it was ten minutes' walk from the police station to either house, yet you, Constable Truelove, told us that the sergeant was gone for two hours. He was helping her search, and returned there after formally ending his shift that day.”

I shuddered. A criminal policeman! Cas picked up the toby-jug of Cyrano de Bergerac, and I finally saw it.

“Of course!” I groaned. “The nose!”

Cas smiled at me.

“Exactly”, he said. “That was the message that Mrs. Garsdale left us. By powdering her whole face except for her nose, she was saying that noses were important. And which of the five authors portrayed in these hideous pieces of pottery has the largest proboscis?”

He picked up the toby-jug and worked loose the small pad in the bottom, shaking out the contents inside. At first nothing emerged, but some poking with his finger extracted first some cotton padding, and then a whole slew of brilliant clear gemstones that sparked in the weak December sun. We all stared at them, aghast.”

“I am sure, constables, that it would only be right and proper for you to inform Mrs. Silverman of our find”, Cas said with a smirk. “And you might also contact her home constabulary, and ask them to check round her garden for any recently dug-over areas. Who knows what they may find therein?”

+~+~+

There is little more to be said. A search of Mrs. Silverman's garden revealed the reason behind her unusually lush lawn was the body that had recently been placed beneath it. The Hutton diamonds were verified, and as there were no blood relatives to inherit and the placing of the jewels clearly showed that Mrs. Garsdale had been the intended recipient, they passed to her sister, who kept one as a souvenir but sold the rest for the same charities that had benefited from the late colonel's will. And on the train back, it was my turn to use the mistletoe. And it was totally unfair that he made me wait all the way until we reached Chatham before I could start!

+~+~+

In our next case together, a brother is and a brother is not.....


	3. Case 11: Fallen Idols (1879)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of John Vincent Harden'.

I

As I was going to St. Ives,  
I met a man with seven wives,  
Each wife had seven sacks,  
Each sack had seven cats,  
Each cat had seven kits:  
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,  
How many were there going to St. Ives? 

“One, obviously.”

I did not squawk, or do an unmanly little jump into the air. Well, not much of one. I turned and glared at my friend, who smiled innocently back at me.

“I would have thought you'd say there was insufficient information”, I said a little haughtily. “We are not told whether the man and his party were overtaken by the speaker on their way to the town, or met coming away from it. You are the one always banging on about the importance of having all the facts.”

He moved closer to me, and I was unable to back away without crashing into the table.

“Oh Dean”, he rumbled, “believe me, I shall soon be 'banging on' something – or someone – quite important to me!”

He smirked, then swung round and walked out of the hotel reception area. It would have been totally pathetic if I had all but fallen over trying to follow him just to keep that delicious scent within range, so I did not.

Much.

+~+~+

Our case in the Royal Counties involved the British Army, a source of pride for many but, it should also be admitted, worry for the politicians. George Duke of Cambridge (who could very well have been King of England had things worked out differently) was Commander-in-Chief at the time, and despite my being a patriotic royalist, I have to admit that his stewardship was exceptionally poor. It would take many years, but eventually the plucky Boers of southern Africa would demonstrate to the world just how weak we really were.

Fortunately some recent reforms had weakened the duke's role, and to his very public annoyance made his role subservient to that of the Secretary of State for War, who at that time was the Earl of Derby, a former captain in the army and a sound man. It was he who had sent for Cas to ask him to investigate a 'delicate matter'. To wit, the Kilmartin brothers.

James and John Kilmartin were ex-soldiers, then in their late forties and recently retired from the British Army. They had achieved local fame for their part in the memorable Battle of Rorke's Drift six months earlier, where barely a hundred British regulars had fought off over three thousand savage Zulu warriors. Both had been injured in the battle, hence their retirement, and their return to England had even made the London press. The earl of course had been delighted at the good publicity, which was why subsequent events had led him to call for Cas.

The two brothers lived alone in a small house called Fenchurch, on the road between St. Ives and the nearby village of Fenstanton. John was unmarried, whilst James had apparently wed a Boer omega during his first posting in southern Africa, over two decades earlier, and he had had two sons, both alphas, dying giving birth to the second. Jameson Kilmartin, the eldest, was away training at the military academy at Sandhurst in Berkshire, whilst Johnson Kilmartin lived in a small house less than half a mile from his father, and worked as a military lawyer. It was he who was waiting to meet us at a small restaurant in town which, disappointingly, did not even serve pie!

“His Grace was less then communicative about the nature of the case he wished us to investigate”, Cas said as we sat down. “I must tell you, Mr. Kilmartin, that I myself was disinclined to take a case based on no information. It is fortunate for you and your uncle that Doctor Winchester here is such an ardent patriot, and pressed me to take the case.”

I could not help but redden at that. I had pressed Cas. Hard. All over. His knowing smirk was not helping, either.

“I am thankful you have come”, Mr. Kilmartin said gravely. “The matter is a serious one, and I do not think it can be easily resolved. My father would be grateful if you could find a solution, because I do not see one myself.”

“When a lawyer says that”, Cas observed, “it is indeed ominous. But kindly lay the facts before us, and we shall see what we can do.”

+~+~+

“The matter in question concerns a Mr. John Vincent Harden”, Mr. Kilmartin began, once coffee had been served (why could we have not met where there was pie?). "My father and uncle returned to the town in May, having managed to secure a berth on one of the faster ships coming round the Cape, and for a few weeks all was well. Until early in June, Mr. Harden arrived.”

“Who is this Mr. Harden?” I ventured.

Mr. Kilmartin hesitated.

“He claims to be my half-cousin”, he said at last, “the result of an affair that Uncle John had with a girl before he went off to his first posting abroad. He is lying, of course.”

Cas looked at him sharply.

“How do you know that?” he demanded.

The young lawyer scoffed.

“My uncle may be a little withdrawn and anti-social, but he would never abandon someone like that!” he said scornfully.

Cas looked thoughtful for a moment, but when he spoke, it seemed he had dropped that particular line of questioning.

“Why should this Mr. Harden lie?” he asked.

“My grandfather, the late Colonel Kilmartin, was surprisingly modern in his outlook”, he explained. “He left everything he died possessed of jointly to my father and uncle, and it was a very sizeable estate. They sold the old house and moved into the small cottage to raise us both; Jamie and I were only infants at the time.”

Cas nodded. He clearly (to me, at least) had something, but was not sharing it yet.

“So Mr. Harden is trying to obtain recognition as your uncle's son”, he said. “What proof does he have?”

“My uncle definitely had a relationship with the man's mother”, Mr. Kilmartin admitted, “that I do know. A flighty young thing called Elizabeth; I am sure Mr. Harden's father could be any one of several local lads at the time. The trouble is, I know she left the area to go and live in Gibraltar because her sister married a man from there, and that is also where Mr. Harden arrived from.”

Cas pressed his long fingers together and thought for a moment. His next question surprised me.

“Who is your family doctor?”

Mr. Kilmartin looked as surprised as I was by the question. 

“Doctor Forrest”, he said. “His surgery is along the road, next to the Taverner's Inn. Is that important?”

“I rather think it may be”, Cas said mysteriously. “If you leave us your card, we shall call when we have news.”

+~+~+

Cas duly called in at the doctor's, but whatever he was looking for was apparently not there, because he was out in barely a minute. He chuckled at my confusion.

“We shall wire Balthazar in London”, he said, “and he can make himself useful for once.”

“What about?” I asked, exasperatedly.

“Wait and see!” he teased.

I pouted.

+~+~+

Whilst Cas sent his telegram, I purchased a newspaper from the shop. I noticed that the claims of this Mr. Harden had made the front page, and I winced. I mentioned it to Cas when he came out, but he seemed unperturbed.

“Do you still wish to go over to Huntingdon?” he asked. A fellow student from St. Bartholomew's had taken up a post in the nearby county town, and I had mentioned that, time permitting, I might call in on him.

“If you do not need me”, I said. 

“Maybe later!” he grinned. “The post office has a railway timetable, so you can see if there is a train that will get you there and back in time.”

As it happened there was, so we separated and I went off to see Doctor Merridale.

+~+~+

We had arranged to meet back at the inn, but I was earlier than expected, so decided to take a walk along the High Street. The midsummer sun had eased off, and it was pleasurable to walk down the streets of an old country town and....

Ye Gods!

II

I stared incredulously through the window of the same restaurant where Cas and I had met Mr. Kilmartin earlier that same day. Cas was back in there – and opposite him was some blonde woman, clearly trying to flirt with him. Flirting with my mate!

I blinked. What the hell was I thinking? Of course Cas wasn't mine; we were just two socially and sexually compatible alphas who hadn't yet found partners we wished to raise a family with, and were enjoying ourselves whilst we were still young enough so to do. It was stupid of me to think that it would ever be permanent; after all; I had only lived with the man for a few years.

He looked up sharply from his conversation, and I just had time to dodge out of sight (mercifully I was at the edge of the shop window at the time). I decided to walk back to the inn, and see if the fresh Huntingdonshire air would help me cope with my misery. 

It didn't.

+~+~+

As it was summer, we had been 'forced' to share a room, as the inn was all but full when we had arrived. At the time I had been glad, but suddenly the prospect of sharing a bed with a man who no longer wanted me – if he ever had – was almost unbearable. But I had nowhere else to go, so I sat there waiting for his return. 

He was late back, which of course set my mind running even more frantically, and I wondered if he had taken his lady-friend for a walk or... well, even back to her house? I got into bed whilst it was still light outside and tried to read my book, but my normal fare of supernatural adventures for once did nothing for me, my mind straying constantly to my absent friend. Finally he returned, seemingly tired out – God, why? - and undressed immediately before getting into bed beside me. I tensed.

He gently took my book from me and placed it on the bedside table, then rolled over and knelt between my legs, pushing them gently apart. I tried to smile at him, but could not. He frowned at me.

“All right”, he said carefully. “What is wrong, Dean? You look like someone has told you I am a secret axe-murderer or something?”

“I saw you with that woman!” I blurted out, wishing a second too late that my mouth would wait for the guard's whistle before charging out of the station. To my surprise, he chuckled.

“Yes, that was Miss Featherstone, Doctor Forrest's secretary”, he said. “In light of how I expected the case to develop, I felt it would be useful to find out what role she played in recent developments.”

I looked at him in confusion. 

“What does the doctor's secretary have to do with anything?” I demanded, rather surlily.

He looked at me curiously.

“Dean”, he said teasingly, “were you jealous?”

“No!” I squawked (it was a manly squawk).

He quirked an eyebrow at me. I blushed.

“Maybe”, I admitted. “But I mean, she was gorgeous, and you....”

I trailed off. He studied me for what seemed like an eternity, then nodded as of reaching a conclusion. Somehow, using that insane human strength of his, he managed to flip us over so it was me kneeling between his legs instead.

“I want you to take me tonight, Dean”, he said purposefully. “And whilst so doing, I want you to mark me.”

My eyes opened wide at that. I secretly loved it when Cas got carried away during sex and marked me like an alpha would his omega, but I would never have dared ask for anything like that in return. Yet now it was being offered to me.

“Cas”, I began, my brain disobligingly listing all the reasons why I shouldn't, “I don't think.....”

I froze. He was already fingering himself open for me. Damnation!

“Don't think then, Dean”, he growled. “Just do!”

And I did, adding my own finger to help work him open, then pushing in so slowly that he clearly got impatient, and impaled himself onto me with a mighty groan. When my vision returned heaven alone knows how long afterwards, My body was somehow thrusting away as if it had got bored waiting for my brain to catch up, and Cas had deliberately turned his head to one side, baring his throat for me. I nibbled briefly at his pule point before biting deep into his skin.

Of course, I was a doctor and I knew the mechanics of knotting and biting. And since only omegas were capable of generating a full knot from an alpha, I knew that there was no way this would state any claim on Cas, any more than his marking me did on me. But knowing the theory and experiencing the practice are two totally different things, as I was about to find out. My mind fairly blew as I tasted Cas' blood, and my last thought before I lost all sense of... well, anything was that it was little wonder that some people died doing this. I was dimly aware that my body was still thrusting away towards orgasm, and even when I finally came and collapsed onto my friend, but it was as if viewed through a heavy veil, my brain seemingly having closed down all non-essential functions.

+~+~+

I came to only slowly the following morning, to find Cas almost fully dressed, putting on his best silk shirt. I did not try to sit up, and waited whilst I tentatively tested to see if my limbs were functional again.

“Are we seeing someone special?” I asked drowsily. “That is your best shirt.”

He smiled at me.

“It is also the softest one I have that will not rub much against the latest addition to my body”, he said quietly.

My mind whirred for a moment before I remembered, then I turned bright red. He smiled and came over to the bed, running his hand against my cheek whilst I lay there.

“And I would not change a thing!” he added. “Though as it happens, we do have an appointment, this afternoon. We are meeting with Mr. Harden at Mr. Kilmartin's offices in town.”

I nodded, and very carefully sat up. I may have been only twenty-seven years old, but my body took the opportunity to remind me, very forcibly, that there was a price to pay for over-exerting myself, and today that price would be a high one.

III

At Mr. Kilmartin's office we were introduced to Mr. John Vincent Harden. I have to say that I disliked the man on sight; he had one of those faces that suggests that some parts of humanity had not descended that far from our common ancestors with vermin. He was about twenty-one years of age, an alpha and had hair that was both slicked down and perfumed. Pretentious indeed! He squinted at us over the top of thick-framed spectacles.

“I trust that you gentlemen are not going to interfere in my rightful claims against my father's estate”, he sniffed.

Ye Gods, even his voice was nasal! I hated him even more. Cas sat down in the other visitors' chair, whilst I stood.

“I understand that your claim is that Mr. John Kilmartin is your father”, Cas said carefully, “which would make you the result of a relationship between him and your mother, Miss Betty Martin later Mrs. Cannock, over two decades ago.”

“It is not a claim; it is a fact”, Mr. Harden said testily.

“May I ask if your remarried mother is aware of your pursuing this claim?” Cas asked.

“My mother has nothing to do with me any more”, the man said, sounding bitter about it. “She disapproves of my decision, but that is her right. All I demand is a fair settlement.”

“Oh, I am sure we can reach a settlement that Is quite fair”, Cas said.

I tensed. I knew that voice. He knew something. He took a sheaf of papers from his pocket and placed them on the desk in front of Mr. Harden.

“What are these?” the man demanded, not touching them.

“Papers concerning the recent collapse of the Farnborough and Fleet Insurance Company”, Cas said airily. “I managed to have them couriered up here from London on the first train of the day.”

Mr. Harden had gone pale. 

“I don't know what you are talking about”, he bluffed.

Cas shook his head at him.

“It really will not do, Mr. Harden”, he said reprovingly. “However, since you persist in denial, I will tell you and the others what really brought you here. The collapse of the Farnborough and Fleet hit many investors, amongst whom was your stepfather, Caleb Cannock. Somehow he found out that your incompetence was instrumental in bringing about that collapse, and he offered you a deal.”

“You lie!”

“Mr. Cannock knew of his wife's background, and that she had had a brief relationship with one of the Kilmartins when they were younger”, Cas went on. “Checking the dates, he realized that you were of the right age to claim to be a result of that relationship, that whilst the claim might or might not be successfully pursued, the Kilmartins would probably pay good money to get you to go away. So the two of you came up with this little ramp to blackmail two heroic men who have served this country well. You are both rascals of the first order!”

“Lies!” the man hissed, looking increasingly nervous.

“However, when you came to St. Ives, you decided to check things first, and met with Miss Featherstone, the local doctor's secretary”, Cas went on. “She, in a moment of weakness, let slip a certain fact that greatly strengthened your hand, one which made you realize the Kilmartins would pay even more to buy your silence. You made your play, but you, sir, have lost.”

“I shall go to the newspapers!” he threatened.

Cas chuckled, and took an envelope out of his pocket, which he placed before the man. Mr. Harden looked at it fearfully.

“What is that?” he asked.

“A train ticket to London, and a ticket for the Elizabeth, due to leave the docks at eight this evening”, Cas said. “You will return to your hotel, pack, take the train to London, and be out of this country by nightfall. And Mr. Harden....”

He moved his chair closer to the other alpha, who visibly cowered.

“Kindly understand that I have friends whose reach is incredibly long. If any word of what you know appears in a single London newspaper any time in the future, then there will be a knife in your back less than twenty-four hours later. The Elizabeth stops off at Rio, the Cape and India before reaching Australia. No matter where you choose to restart your life, I guarantee that my agents will find you. And kill you.”

His tone was cold, and even I shivered. Mr. Harden whimpered, and almost fell over his feet as he all but ran from the office. Cas smiled reassuringly at me, and I let loose a breath I did not even know I had been holding in. He turned to Mr. Kilmartin.

“I think, sir”, he said calmly, “that you should go and inform your.... father that all is well.”

The young lawyer looked as shocked as I felt, but nodded, and thanked Cas profusely for his efforts.

IV

We checked out of the hotel and took a train back to Cambridge, where we changed to the main line to London. Cas had checked at St. Ives station, and Mr. Harden had caught an earlier train.

“So what was the terrible secret that Mr. John Vincent Harden extracted from Miss Featherstone?” I asked.

Cas smiled at me.

“I am afraid that this is one case that will not see the light of day for many a year”, he said ruefully. “But it has certainly been interesting. Especially with regard to your display of jealousy over Miss Featherstone.”

I blushed fiercely. He chuckled.

“The late Colonel Kilmartin was a good man”, Cas began, “and ironically it was an act of kindness that led to his family's troubles. Balthazar found for me that a colleague of his in India, a Major Brackenhurst, had left behind a young son at home, not far short of the age of the Colonel's own son. The major died, and the colonel had promised to do what he could for the boy when he returned to England. In the event he decided to adopt him as his own son. I saw pictures of them both at the office, and they are very similar in appearance; I might almost have thought them twins.”

He sounded exasperated at not knowing one detail. I smiled at that.

“One reason for the colonel's actions was that the Brackenhursts were involved in a major scandal at the time, and he managed to bury the young boy's past successfully, passing him off as his own son," Cas went on. “All was well until the boys hit puberty, and then began to develop feelings for each other. Naturally such a thing between brothers of the blood was unthinkable. The Colonel too had died by this time, but the one other person he had taken into his confidence – his doctor – was empowered to tell the boys the truth given what was happening.”

“Why did they not just tell everyone else the truth?” I wondered.

Cas fixed me with a look.

“Small towns are inherently conservative in nature”, he reminded me, “and despite their family's standing, they knew that many would say it was lie to allow them to live together as a couple. I would speculate that John Kilmartin is in fact an omega, and that our lawyer friend is his son. You may remember I told him he should communicate news of the successful resolution of the case to his 'father'.”

“You could have said 'fathers'”, I observed.

“I did not wish to embarrass him further”, Cas said. “Anyway, to continue. All marches well; despite being an omega, John Kilmartin is as physically strong as his brother, and the two rise to become national heroes as a result of their brave actions. I suspect it was that that drew the unwanted attentions of the unpleasant Mr. Harden, on the lookout for money to fund the lifestyle he presumes to think he deserves in some way.”

“He comes to St. Ives hoping to have his silence bought, but in checking his story he learns the family secret from a garrulous Miss Featherstone”, Cas said. “She is a recent arrival there, and I can but hope she does not last long. Not only is she indiscreet, her perfume is overpowering. Though it was perfume that gave me a clue to how to unfold this case.”

“Perfume?” I asked, confused. He nodded.

“She told me that the doctor had a regular order for Alston's Soap”, Cas said. “The soap they sell as being able to accentuate an alpha's natural scent, although it can also be used to generate fake alpha scents for betas and even omegas. John Kilmartin must be using it when he needs to meet people from time to time, so they continue to think him an alpha.”

“Why would they need to think that?” I asked. He looked at me almost pityingly.

“Can you imagine how the British Army would react to finding one of their greatest heroes of recent times was actually 'just an omega'!” he snorted. “The publicity alone would be terrible, for them and the Kilmartins. People expect their heroes to be strapping, muscular alphas, or a well-built beta at best.”

“That is so old-fashioned”, I said. “That is like saying an alphas only want sex all the time!”

He quirked an eyebrow at me, and I gulped. Uh oh.

“You are saying that you, Doctor Dean Winchester”, can actually control yourself in the presence of a potential sexual encounter?” he teased.

“Of course I can!” I said resolutely, not starting to sweat at all.

He smirked at me, then stood up and slowly began to take his clothes off. I just sat there open-mouthed, until he finished neatly folding up his clothes and sat there opposite me, naked as the day he was born, and sporting an increasingly impressive erection.

“It is at least an hour and a half to Liverpool Street”, he smiled. “Let us see how long you last.....”

I curtailed his conversation quite effectively by leaping across the compartment and forcing him down onto the seats (the bastard had, I later realized, raised the arm-rests in a presumed anticipation of my lack of willpower). Those blue eyes looked up at me expectantly, then using that inhuman strength of his he somehow flipped us over, and scooted back to kneel between my legs which, without my even telling them, raised in anticipation.

God, I had it bad for this man!

+~+~+

We fell off the seat once, but it was definitely worth it!

+~+~+

In our next adventure together, a call for help from a family friend takes us North of the Border, and an adventure that ends in tragedy.....


	4. Case 12: Rock And A Hard Place (1879)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual'.

I

Although only a few of our cases involved our kilted cousins north of the Border, it was perhaps typical several were amongst those we (Cas) solved from Cramer Street. This time we went north ourselves, to the tiny Fifeshire village of Musgrave, and a case involving cuckoldry, an ancient curse, my own little brother – and a tragic, if deserved ending.

+~+~+

“Dean”, Cas said across the breakfast table one cold December morning, “you would describe yourself as a man of equable temperament, would you not?”

“Of course”, I said firmly. “I am a doctor. I have to be.”

Too late, the alarm bells started ringing. I looked at my friend to see a knowing look on those handsome features.

“What?” I asked suspiciously, wondering what sort of trap I had just talked myself into.

“I was wondering how you would feel about spending Christmas north of the Border.”

“In Scotland?” I asked, puzzled. “Why?”

“I have a case that involves my spending some time in the ancient Kingdom of Fife”, he explained. “The village of Musgrave, to be exact. And since your brother is studying at Edinburgh, I could ask that the two of you both be invited, so you could spend time together.”

I was, I had to admit, a little touched. Sammy was now over halfway through his training at the University in the Scottish capital, and although he wrote (infrequently), we had not seen each other since my move to London five years back, the generosity of Cas' father having extended to buying him a small apartment of his own in the capital of Lothian. I could only hope he had not managed to grow even taller during that time.

“That would be very.... pleasant”, I admitted, trying to blink back an unaccountable wetness at the back of my eyes. “Can you tell me anything about the case?”

“I am not even sure there is a case”, he admitted. “It may be nothing. But Ceawlin Musgrave is an old family friend, or at least his father Edwin was.”

“Saxon names that far north”, I observed.

“Do not forget that Edinburgh was once an English town”, my friend said. “If you can get the time off, we could leave on the evening of the twenty-third and take the sleeper. We can meet your brother at Stirling rather than subjecting all of us to a perilous crossing of the Firth of Forth. Fortunately the North British Railway line to Dundee passes through Musgrave Hall, and all trains have to stop there on request.”

“That is unusual”, I said.

“When the railway was built, apparently the Lord at the time made it a condition of selling them the land”, Cas said, yawning. “And with the opening last year of the Tay Bridge only a few miles away, the area is quite accessible.”

I looked at him anxiously. Had he not been sleeping again?

“Four hours”, he muttered.

“And it's creepy when you do that!” I snapped.

He grinned.

+~+~+

I should at this point remind my readers that travelling to central Scotland was very different in those far-off days. We could have taken the East Coast route and picked up Sammy in Edinburgh itself, but the great Forth Bridge lay over a decade into the future, and we would have as I mentioned crossed the Forth by ferry to pick up another train on the other side. This was why we instead took the West Coast route and arranged to meet him in Stirling, Cas generously paying for his ticket there. We would then all three take the local train across the Kingdom of Fife to Musgrave Halt.

We arrived at Euston Station and found that we had adjoining compartments connected by a door, so after I was settled in I joined my friend, taking the chair whilst he sat cross-legged on his bed and took out his pipe.

“Why do you even have that thing?” I grumbled. “You never light it.”

He leaned over and, to my surprise, held the stem under my nose. I was about to object when I realized.

“Barley sugar?”

“A weakness of mine”, he admitted with a shrug. “People expect a consulting detective to have certain trademarks, and being in deep thought whilst smoking a pipe is one thing. They think the only reason it is unlit is due to my absent-mindedness. Rather more evocative that my turning up with a bag of ha'penny sweets!”

I shook my head at him, but laughed.

“Tell me about the case”, I said.

He sat back on his bed and stretched out his long legs. It struck me that I rarely saw him this relaxed; he was usually tense over some case or other. This look was good on him.

“Despite the name, the Musgraves are, by descent, as Scottish as they come”, he began. “An ancestor was either fortunate or smart enough to get in with one of the early Stuarts, so when the latter came to the Scottish and later the English thrones, they 'rode their coat-tails,' so to speak. The current Lord is Ceawlin; as I explained his father Edwin was a friend of my own father. Ceawlin and I were at school together, although he was in the year ahead of mine.”

“His father died young?” I asked.

“Hunting accident”, Cas said. “It meant that Ceawlin was the only surviving Musgrave for a while, although he married two years ago, and now has a son, Kenneth. That is partly what this is all about.”

“The boy is not in any danger?” I asked, concerned.

“I do not know”, Cas said, frowning. “It is all frankly bizarre. The family has an ancient ritual that, on the night of the first birthday of a new heir, the father must go down to the cross in the village churchyard and spend the night giving thanks. Even in this day and age, childhood is a dangerous time.”

“And your friend does not want to do this?”

Cas looked at me, and I felt a little uneasy.

“He is uncertain about it”, he said. “The only time a Lord Musgrave tried to break the ritual was Lord Nathaniel back in 1644. The very next day, Covenanter soldiers sacked The Hard Place and raised it to the ground, burning him and his family alive.”

“The Hard Place?” I asked.

“The ancestral home”, Cas explained. “Then it was on the other side of the hill from the village, close to the coast where a road ran along the foreshore. Hence the name.”

“Oh.”

“His wife, Lady Alison, is convinced that it is all mumbo-jumbo, and that he would be better ignoring the whole thing.”

“So he is torn”, I said. 

“Yes. I suppose we had better turn in, so we are fresh when we arrive in Stirling and meet your brother.”

II

I nodded, and stood to make my way to the door, only for him to move quickly across the compartment and stand before me. Before I could say anything, he had those magic hands of his inside my trousers, and my cock was already rising to attention.

“You, doctor, are going nowhere!” he growled, and I so knew that voice. “This train is due to depart in three minutes, and will soon be doing a decent speed as it heads north. We have never fucked on a moving vehicle before.”

I blushed in shame, but I was now fully erect, and the scent he was putting out had caused my upper brain to shut up shop for the night. My dignity was somewhere back at the ticket-barrier, and to be honest I did not miss it.

“You or me?” I managed, almost proud of myself for managing three whole words.

“We are riding a train”, he said, removing his own clothes impossibly quickly, “so I would like it if you rode me.”

With that he was on the bed, that python of his already up and at twelve o'clock high. I managed to divest myself of my clothes somehow and clambered up onto the bed. I wondered if he would try to take me raw – we had tried that once or twice, and the first time I had had to take a day off from the surgery as I could barely walk without wincing – but instead he worked me slowly open. So slowly, in fact that by the time he had four fingers in me, I was desperate for it.

“Now!” I groaned. 

Using that impossible strength of his, he manoeuvred me over his cock, and gently positioned me on the head. I was past caring by this point and I promptly thrust downwards, causing him to utter a grunt of protest as he bottomed out inside me. I was only dimly aware that the train was now moving, its jerky movements only adding to my euphoria.

“Impatient!” he growled. “So you want it rough tonight, Dean?”

And by all that was holy, he went straight for my prostate and hit it first time. Normally he would tease me a little, but tonight we were galloping towards climax at full speed. I was sure I was going to come first, but he beat me to it by seconds, erupting inside me with a satisfied growl. I followed him over seconds later, and sat there breathless for some moments, before getting off to find a cloth – rather suspiciously already damp and close at hand – and wiping us both down. Once we were clean, I made to go back to my compartment, but he reached up and grabbed my hand.

“Stay”, he whispered.

I nodded, and slid under the covers next to him. He was, as usual, putting out tons of heat, and I was too tired to do anything but wrap myself around him and fall asleep in seconds.

+~+~+

I awoke the following morning to an empty bed and the sound of someone knocking at the compartment door. A befuddled look around told me I was still in Cas' compartment yet alone, so presumably he had gone into mine. I let the conductor in with my morning coffee, pointedly ignoring the smirk on his face that told me he knew I had had a good night. At least he did not know who it was with! I knew that Cas had probably done the right thing by not making what we had public, but irrationally I still felt disappointed. I wanted more!

Of course, I should have known better that to wish for such a thing. We alighted at Stirling and met Sammy – another inch taller, damnation! - outside the platform entrance, our onward train being in just under an hour's time. And even though he was only a beta, he was also my brother, and after one look at the pair of us that smirk told me. He knew!

Damnation!

+~+~+

Mr. Ceawlin Musgrave's home - 'The Hard Place' - was, I quickly decided was like the Scottish weather. Damp and depressing. And most of the people in it were frankly strange!

Ceawlin Musgrave was the only one I could take to, though Fate had not been kind to him in granting him the family nose, which stuck out prodigiously (Cas, out of line of sight, grinned at my constrained reaction, the bastard!). The alpha lord immediately introduced us to his wife and son, the latter's nose fortunately not yet showing any tendencies towards greatness. Lady Alison Musgrave was quiet and, I thought, a little secretive. She was short, dark and almost ethereal, as if she were not really there. Also in the house was her unmarried sister Miss Pamela Barnes, who eyed Cas up with great interest. It always puzzled me as to why ladies were drawn to his unkempt appearance, but whatever it was, it worked for him. I did not move closer to him when I saw that.

Not much, anyway. And despite what Cas later claimed, there was definitely no possessive growling!

There was of course a full compliment of staff, but the only one to draw my attention was the beta steward, John Barnes. Despite the name, he was only a third cousin once removed to the two ladies. He was tall, red-headed and (I thought) the archetypal Celtic warrior, who looked at his Sassenach visitors with barely-concealed disgust. I privately thought that he was probably still resentful over the 1707 Act of Union. His sort usually were!

+~+~+

I had expected Christmas morning to be taken up with opening young Kenneth's presents, and was surprised that this was not the case. Ceawlin Musgrave saw my confusion. 

“It is his first birthday tomorrow”, he explained, “so we decided that this year, as he it too young to understand it, we would have one big day of presents.”

“Is that the night you are expected to go to the Cross?” I asked.

He blushed.

“Yes”, he said. “Alison thinks I should not go. She says that in this day and age, we should be well past such nonsense.”

“I would venture that many here would disagree with that”, Cas said.

Musgrave looked surprised, but nodded. 

“Yes”, he said. “Barnes thinks I am a fool who doesn't want to face a night in the cold and wet to save his own son. Though he is too polite to say it out loud.”

“And does your sister-in-law have an opinion?”

I was surprised at the question. Had Cas noticed the way Miss Barnes had been looking at him the previous evening? I had come away from talking with Sammy to find Miss Barnes far too close to my friend, and I had immediately felt anxious. Why? He was an unattached alpha, and she was quite good-looking. But the thought still made me nauseous.

“She has said nothing on the matter”, Musgrave said.

I saw Sammy staggering down the long staircase, and smiled at how half-asleep the boy looked. I waited for him, and we went into breakfast together.

+~+~+

The day passed quietly and pleasantly enough, although I could detect a growing unease amongst some people as to Musgrave's decision, stated firmly over luncheon, that he would not be going to the Cross the following night. I took Sammy out for a long walk that afternoon to escape the tension, though when we came back, it was to the scene of Miss Barnes trying to engage Cas in conversation in the library, albeit with little success. I felt pleased at that, although irritatingly he caught my expression and there was what was undeniably a smirk. He would pay for that once we were out of here!

The calm was broken at dinner that evening. Miss Barnes had not come down from her room, and after waiting a while we sat down without her. We, were just about to start when there was a loud scream from upstairs. We all raced out of the room, Cas and Mr. Barnes in the lead, and must have reached her room less than a minute after the scream. Musgrave took the three of us aside and promised to 'explain later', which I found odd, so we went back to our meal. After some time he and Mr. Barnes joined us.

“Is Miss Barnes all right?” I asked politely.

“The woman's fey!” Mr. Barnes grumbled. I did not get his meaning, but Cas apparently did.

“You mean she has the Sight”, he said. 

Barnes looked across at Musgrave, and scowled.

“Ay!” he said sourly. “And someone'd better be getting the message!”

He got up and stomped out, much to my surprise. Musgrave sighed.

“My sister-in-law has psychic premonitions”, he admitted. “Tonight, she told us that, and I quote, 'Death would visit the Hall before three days were out', unquote.”

“Folly!” I scoffed.

Musgrave looked at me.

“Do your remember the murder of Julia Martha Thomas, earlier this year?” he asked quietly.

I did. It had been in all the papers that the maid of the lady in question, one Kate Webster, had murdered her mistress then disposed of the body, even masquerading as her for a time before disappearing back to Ireland. She had however been found out, and later hung.

“My sister-in-law went to the police on the day before the murder, and told them that a crime would take place on that very street”, Musgrave said. “I think because it took place in the town that bears her name, Barnes, they dismissed it as a joke. But she was right.”

I hesitated.

“So will you go to the Cross after all?” I asked tentatively.

He seemed to think for a moment before straightening up.

“No”, he said firmly. “Alison is right. In this day and age, we need to be getting beyond such nonsense!”

“Musgrave?”

My interlocutor jumped, and spun round. Cas was standing directly behind him.

“May I have a word in private?” the detective asked. 

Musgrave looked at him suspiciously, but nodded and allowed himself to be led away. I stared after them both, curiously.

III

“What was all that about earlier?” I asked my friend as we sat in the library after dinner. Fortunately Miss Barnes had apparently tired of Cas' obvious lack of interest, and had instead focussed her attentions on poor Sammy, which had made dinner 'interesting'. Cas sucked on his pipe before answering.

“I was recommending a course of action to our genial host”, he said. “I think he will follow it; at least, I hope he will. For his own sake.”

“You think there is something in this ritual thing?” I asked dubiously.

His reply surprised me.

“I am certain of it.”

“You cannot believe in some old curse!” I scoffed.

“Miss Barnes expects Death to visit this house very soon”, Cas said flatly. “I fear that she may well be right.”

“And what makes you think that?” I asked.

“A number of factors”, he said evasively. “Primarily, young Kenneth Musgrave.”

I was about to demand an explanation, but at that moment Sammy burst into the library and all but ran over to sit beside us. I could hear Miss Barnes calling for him from the corridor outside, and I chuckled at him.

+~+~+

December the twenty-seventh passed quietly. Everyone knew that Lord Musgrave had broken the ritual by not attending at the Cross the previous night, and I could sense a growing sense of tension, particularly from some of the servants. The scowl on Mr. Barnes' face was, if possible, even deeper.

I took Sammy out for a long walk, and managed to extract from him that he was seeing a fellow student at the University, a pretty blonde girl called Jessica Moore. Naturally this called for some good-natured brotherly ribbing, and I did not disappoint. Until Sammy quite snidely remarked that I was the one already living with someone. I pointed out that Cas was an alpha, in case Sammy hadn't noticed, and that we were merely sharing a suite of rooms, though I did not miss his sharp expression when I mentioned our recent adventures. His remark about my dishevelled appearance at Stirling were quite uncalled for, however accurate they may or may not have been.

We arrived back to find the trap waiting outside, and a footman loading a suitcase into it. Mrs. Musgrave was inside, talking to her husband, before it drew away.

“Alison had a letter from an old friend down in Stirling, who has gone into hospital”, Musgrave explained. “She wants to visit her today, but she will be back for the New Year.”

He exchanged what seemed to be a meaningful look with Cas, but neither man said anything, and we all hurried inside to escape the light rain that had just started.

+~+~+

The following day, the rain continued to fall, and a storm seemed to be blowing in from the North Sea. House and village lay on a small hill just two miles south of the Firth of Tay, so we were exposed to the full force of the winter weather. The three of us spent the day reading, the only event being a telegram from Mrs. Musgrave to note her safe arrival at her friend's house.

Musgrave wanted to drive down to meet his wife off the early evening train, so we sat down to an earlier than usual dinner, with the promise of a cold buffet later if we were hungry. I noted with amusement how Sammy inserted himself between Cas and myself, presumably in an attempt to evade the attentions of Miss Barnes. She was certainly an attractive young lady, and I had to admit to being slightly offended that I had not been targeted by her as of yet. Musgrave covered a yawn from the head of the table.

“I really feel very tired”, he said. “I think I shall take a nap for an hour before leaving. Barnes, could you please ask Mrs. Holland to send me up a glass of warm milk?”

“Of course, sir”, his steward nodded. They both stood and left the table, in different directions.

“I should turn in too”, Miss Barnes said. “It looks like being a bad one tonight.”

For some reason, I thought at the time that her words had a hidden meaning. A thought which, most horribly, turned out to be all too accurate.

+~+~+

At about a quarter to seven, I was sat in my room when I heard a knock at the door. 

“Enter!” I called out.

To my surprise, it was Cas. He looked unduly anxious.

“Come, Dean!” he said imperiously. “The game's afoot!”

He disappeared before I could question him further, and I scrambled to follow him, down the stairs to the library, where I found a worried-looking Musgrave being handed a stiff drink by the butler. Not his first, I judged from his shaking hand. Our host downed his glass and looked hard at Cas.

“You were right!” he ground out. “I so hoped you were not!”

My friend bowed his head.

“I am sorry”, he said. “I wish it could have been otherwise.”

“What is going on?” I asked in confusion.

Cas turned to me.

“About half an hour ago, the steward, Mr. Barnes, attempted to shoot his master.”

“But why?” I demanded. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Tell him!” Musgrave ground out. “Why not? It will be the talk of the Edinburgh taverns soon enough!”

“Mr. Barnes has been conducting an affair with his cousin, Mrs. Musgrave”, Cas explained. “Tonight he went to our host's room in an attempt to kill him.”

“But we would have heard something!” I objected.

The storm outside chose that moment to do an obliging roll of thunder, and Cas smiled.

“He merely waited until the thunder”, he said. 

“But why did Musgrave not hear him?” I said, turning to our host. “You cannot have been asleep by then, surely?”

“Mr. Barnes drugged the milk he took up for him”, Cas explained. “I presume you poured it away?”

Musgrave nodded.

“So the shot missed?” I asked.

“Your friend advised me to sleep in another room, and he made a mound under the bedclothes to look like me”, Musgrave explained, reaching for another brandy. He looked at Cas. “I presume that, when he realized I was not there, he fled.”

Cas nodded.

“He took a horse and rode off down the road to the station”, he said. “He is probably in Dundee by now.”

“Why Dundee?” I asked curiously. “Surely if he is fleeing the country, he would go to London?”

“You underestimate the power of our country”, Cas reminded me. “In this day and age when Britannia's reach is so long, the only safe place he could run to would be a nation we are hostile towards, and which would not hand him over. I would hazard a guess that there is a ship leaving Dundee Harbour tomorrow, bound for Archangel or St. Petersburg. Given recent events between our two countries, the Russians would probably not be obliging over his extradition.”

“But how could you have known?” I asked. 

“Lord Musgrave told me.”

Our host looked up in surprise.

“Not directly”, Cas admitted, “but ever since my arrival in your house, my lord, I have observed how you do not respond to young Kenneth the way most fathers would to their first-born son and heir, especially to such an estate as this. You have suspected your wife of infidelity for some time?”

The nobleman nodded. I could see how the subject pained him.

“I did”, he said sadly, “though I never thought it to be with her own cousin. When she returns, I will have certain questions to ask her.”

“Indeed”, Cas said.

IV

Close observers of the date of this story will probably be able to guess the outcome. Mrs. Musgrave did not return. It emerged that, as a back-up plan, Mr. Barnes had arranged to meet his cousin off an earlier train at Musgrave Halt after the attempt on her husband's life, so that if it went wrong, at least they could escape together. It was subsequently discovered that a large number of bonds had gone missing from Lord Musgrave's safe, to which only he, his wife and his steward had access. Clearly the two planned to sail to Russia to start a new life together.

December the twenty-eighth, in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and seventy-nine was, of course, the night that the bridge across the River Tay collapsed, sending a train full of passengers to a cold death in the icy waters far below....

+~+~+

We took a train back via Stirling to to Edinburgh and spent a day with Sammy before taking the night sleeper back to London. I even managed to get some sleep. Well, some. 

This time, Cas was the rider.

Returning through the ever-present traffic to Cramer Street, we made the safety of our rooms, and I collapsed gratefully into a fireside chair whilst Cas opened the mail.

It took some time for me to notice he was unusually silent, even for him.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He held out a letter to me.

“This is from the Strand magazine”, he said, and he sounded vaguely amused for some reason. “Apparently you informed them you and some friend of yours go round solving crimes, and they would like to know if you would write an article about it for them?”

I blushed bright red. Most disobligingly, the floor declined to open up and swallow me whole.

“I swear, I never.....” I blabbered.

He chuckled.

“I am sure your doctor's discretion would never lead you to divulge inappropriate details”, he said with a smile. “If you wish to write up one of the cases we have been on, then by all means do so.”

“You would not mind?” I asked, surprised.

“There are obviously some cases which, for obvious reasons, publication would be.... inadvisable”, he said. “But yes, provided you ask me first about which stories you wish to publish, I see no problem with it.”

“The 'Gloria Scott'?” I asked. “Our first case?”

“Provided you do not reveal what happened with the diamonds”, he said.

“Deal!”

+~+~+

The fallout from the Musgrave case was rather more than I might have expected, let alone the collapse of the bridge and the (deserved) deaths of the plotters. I do not think poor Ceawlin Musgrave ever really recovered from his wife's perfidy, and the death of her son Kenneth in a scarlet fever outbreak two years later was the last straw. He resigned his title to his younger brother Cynric, and left to start a new life in South Africa.

Two weeks beforehand, Mr. Cynric Musgrave had become engaged to a Miss Pamela Barnes.....

+~+~+

Our next case involved supernatural happenings in Essex, and a new career for me....


	5. Case 13: A Very Supernatural Christmas (1880)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'A Study In Scarlet'.

I

Upon reading some of the letters that I received from my loyal readers in later years, I received the distinct impression that they thought my detective friend was off solving matters of national import every other day, and that I was being frankly mean in not sharing these with them. Whilst it is true that there are still some cases that cannot be made public without some unpleasant diplomatic consequences, both national and Continental, the vast majority of Cas' work was mundane, which was why a whole year elapsed after the dramatic conclusion to the Musgrave case before we had anything interesting happen. 

I had spent that winter both sorting through Cas' copious files – the man kept records of everything, just not in any order – and finding the time in between that and my work to slowly eke out a passable transcription of the “Gloria Scott” Affair. I was unsure as to whether to show it to the great man himself, and although he knew of my progress (or lack thereof), he did not press to see it. I found choosing the right words incredibly difficult, and I silently blessed the Strand magazine for their understanding as to my failure to keep to anything remotely approaching a schedule. It was the end of November before the story was finished, or at least presentable, and I dispatched it to the magazine, frankly glad to see the back of it. Writing was a lot harder than it looked!

+~+~+

About a week later, I returned from my rounds footsore and tired. I had been working in the surgery and taking few visits as of late, but today I had covered a doctor whose patients had been spread the length and breadth of our fair if foggy city, and it had been an effort to get round to them all. Plus, the extra traffic engendered by the approaching Christmas season had slowed me down, and unusually I did not find it in me to share with the rising sense of merriment, although I had of course (over-)decorated our rooms. Returning to said rooms, I was overjoyed to find a cup of steaming hot coffee on the table. I imbibed it happily, sighing in contentment.

“That was actually mine”, Cas said dryly from across the room.

I jumped. I had not noticed him in his high-backed chair.

“I am sorry”, I said. “I didn't....”

“But you clearly need it more than me”, he said, with a small smile. “I shall send down for another one, and you should get yourself out of those wet clothes. Then I can tell you about a new case I have been offered.”

I nodded in excitement, although I noticed that he did not say he had actually taken the case. I hurried to my room and removed my wet layers, trading them for a rub-down with a towel and my favourite dressing-gown. By the time I returned to the room, there was another cup of coffee, this time by my fireside chair. I hesitated.

“That one is yours”, Cas smiled. “Sit down, old friend.”

I frowned at the 'old' – I had barely turned twenty-seven, and was little more than two and a half years older than him, for Heaven's sake! - and sat down to wait for his news. He sipped his coffee, then took a barley-sugar out of a small bag on the table by his own chair, and sucked on it happily.

“A Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley, from Essex, called round today”, he began, “and would like me to investigate what he calls 'supernatural goings-on' in his home.”

“You investigate the paranormal?” I asked, surprised. There had of course been a minor supernatural element to our recent Scottish case, but it had been incidental to the attempted murder of Ceawlin Musgrave.

“I suspect this is not paranormal”, Cas said, “otherwise I would not be interested. But the case has several fascinating aspects to it, and I think as a budding author, it might appeal to your good self.”

I blushed. 

“Pray tell me about it”, I said.

He sat back in his chair, and pressed his long fingers together. 

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley owns a large property in Essex, close to the River Thames”, he said. “It is built in the site of an old monastery, Beaumont, a sub-house to the great abbey at Waltham, which was one of the last to fall under Henry VIII's axe in the year fifteen hundred and forty.”

I nodded. History was not really an interest of mine, but I could have listened to Cas reciting the business directory to hear that rich, deep growl.

“The abbey, like so many others, was sold, and eventually a private house was built on the site, using many of the stones from the old building. Everything was swept away except a cloister and a small chapel, onto which the new building was put up. The chapel continued in use for the house's new owners.”

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed, belatedly remembering. “Wriothesley! Was not he connected with Shakespeare in some way?”

Cas smiled at my enthusiasm.

“The family, like many at the time, split over religion”, he explained. “Mr. Zebediah's ancestors came from a Protestant branch, and were merely cousins to the Earl of Southampton to whom certain of our greatest writer's sonnets were dedicated. It was probably just as well; that nobleman's involvement in the Essex Plot brought much of his close family down with him. I believe Mr. Zebediah's ancestor, foreseeing the disaster, was wise enough to present the Queen with a beautiful new dress shortly before the plot was uncovered. He knew his mark; certain it was that his side of the family escaped unscathed.”

“So why does the almost-descendant of an Elizabethan nobleman need the services of London's greatest detective?” I asked lightly.

Cas looked at me in amusement. I silently cursed myself, wondering since when had I taken to putting my foot into my mouth like that. Fortunately he refrained from adding to my discomfort, and continued with his story.

“About three weeks ago Mr. Wriothesley, who lives alone, was about to turn in for the night when he heard the sound of a bell outside”, he said. “Upon attaining the window, he observed a figure in red moving from the house to the Chapel, into which it disappeared. He immediately came down and, with his butler's assistance, made his way to the Chapel, only to find it locked and, apparently, undisturbed.”

A figure in red?” I asked, dubiously.

“Beaumont Priory was home to the Red Friars, an order much favoured by the Pope”, Cas explained. “They were, technically at least, vassals of the French king, not the English one, the English Crown having gifted the estate to Louis IX three centuries prior. That saved them in the short term, but when the Valois and the Hapsburgs fell out in 1540, Henry the Eighth took the opportunity to have the place closed down. Unlike most abbeys, they did not go without a fight, and the last abbot, a Frenchman, was dragged away shouting that his order would one day reclaim what had been taken from them.”

“I did not think you believed in ghosts”, I observed.

Cas sighed.

“The Beaumont estate is a valuable one, and since he is now past forty, Mr. Wriothesley has been looking to its succession”, he said. “He has a brother, Zachariah, but the two do not get on, so Mr. Zebediah has adopted as his heir a distant cousin, one Wilton Farnsworth, although the boy plans to change his name to that of his adoptive father when he is twenty-one. He is sixteen years old, so cannot inherit for another five years, and Mr. Zebediah is concerned that someone – either his brother, or agents acting for him – is trying to scare he himself into an early grave, so that they could manage the estate for a time. Our client does have a weak heart.”

I felt an inexplicable pulse of pleasure at his use of 'our' rather than 'my'. 

“I do not see what he expects you to do about it, though”, I said.

“I would conjecture that he hopes I can find direct evidence of his brother's perfidy, so the latter can be persuaded to cease his activities”, Cas said. “We would probably have to spend a couple of days there, if you have no objection.”

I smiled.

“I would be delighted”, I said.

“Good”, Cas said, with the hint of a smile. He came over and sat next to me on the couch, then turned to me. “Now, doctor, you look particularly tired, and as you have had the most excellent foresight to wear nothing under that dressing-gown, I prescribe a deep and relaxing massage.”

I blushed (all right, I had been hoping!), and he whispered to me about getting something from his room, so I stretched out face-down on the (fortunately long) couch. It felt odd, lying naked as the day I was born, my cock pressing into the cushions, but I trusted my room-mate. Who was, I suspected, some way past just being a room-mate.

II

Strong, muscular hands pressed into the top of my back, and I could smell some sort of honey-scented balm he was using. I sighed happily, and sighed again as he worked his way around my back. I was becoming hard, but this was just glorious, and I did not care if he saw to my growing erection or not. Though when he reached my backside and gently worked his way down between my thighs, I tensed in anticipation. Instead, he worked his way down one leg and back up the other, before returning to massaging my backside. I had not even the energy to turn and scowl at him for teasing me in this way, though I did pout into the cushions.

“Stop pouting!” he whispered into my ear. “It makes you look even sexier!”

How on earth had he known...... oh! He was now massaging my entrance, and that finger was only going one place....

I was so out of it, I did not even feel him enter me, but once he was inside, he more than made his presence felt, teasing my prostate by nudging it without ever quite fully hitting it. I writhed beneath him, and it was frankly unfair; I was physically bigger than him, yet I was totally at his mercy. I would have objected, had I been able to manage those tricky things called words.

Now he was stretched out along my back, and I only realized at that moment that he had been naked all along. I sighed as I felt his reassuring weight on top of me, grinding his hips into me but still not giving me the relief I craved. I tried to tighten my walls around him and managed to elicit a grunt, but he swiftly retaliated, biting a mark into the back of my neck which, hopefully, would be hidden by my collar the following day. Otherwise people might think me a total slut of an alpha, who could not stop his partner from doing what he wanted with him.

The fact that that belief would be all too true was neither here nor there.

And then Cas reared up and changed his angle, and he was hitting my prostate fully. I groaned, then groaned again when his hand reached round to wrap my cock, preventing me from coming. I needed to get off, but he was owning me in every way, and in the name of all that was holy, I was loving every minute of it! 

Somehow he managed to turn me through ninety-degrees, so that my painfully-erect cock was pointing across the room like a sign-post, and then without warning he let go, only to clasp his other hand across my mouth. I had only a fraction of a second to wonder why before I came, my come flying clean cross the coffee-table and almost reaching the fire-place; indeed, one globule reached the fire-guard, where the heat of the fire made it sizzle and steam. I would have screamed out my release, but fortunately the hand on my mouth reduced it to a set of garbled moans.

I was so far gone that I did not realize that Cas himself had not come, until he pulled out, turned me onto my back and came violently, his ejaculate flying several feet into the air before falling mostly onto my chest. Then he reached out for a tissue, and wiped me down, before snuggling up against me, mercifully avoiding touching my now painfully sensitive cock.

“That was a massage?” I managed eventually.

I could feel him smiling into my neck, where he was nuzzling happily.

“That was a special massage”, he corrected. “But I'll keep my hands off you for now, Dean. We do not want you unable to sit down on the train tomorrow, do we?”

I pouted, glad that he could not see me from his position.

“And stop pouting”, he whispered, “or I will give you my extra-special massage!”

I gulped, and wondered whether to pout again.

+~+~+

I pouted again....

+~+~+

The following day we departed a Fenchurch Street Station and a city still wrapped in the seemingly endless fog, which felt the need to follow us the length of our journey (a long and painful journey; that final pout had been extremely costly!). We finally arrived at Beaumont Road Halt where, with some effort, we procured a cab to take us the rest of the way to the Priory. We passed through the tiny hamlet of Beaumont, which was little more than a set of cottages on a hill overlooking a Thames I could not see but could definitely (and unfortunately) smell. 

On our arrival at the Priory, we found the place all a-bustle. An officious-looking police constable came out of the front door to wave us away.

“We don't need no more sightseers!” he said snappishly. 

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley was expecting us this morning”, Cas replied crisply. “Is there a problem, officer?”

The constable eyed my friend up and down.

“Housekeeper said he was expecting some toff from the smoke”, he said. “I suppose you can.....”

“Constable!”

I looked up, relieved for once to see the familiar bulk of Sergeant Henriksen. The constable looked put out at his arrival, but said nothing.

“Come in, gentlemen”, Henriksen said, ushering us through the door. “Sergeant Pelham is in charge of the case, but the victim asked me here, presumably for much the same reason he asked you.”

“Victim?” I asked.

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley was found dead by his maid at nine o'clock this morning”, Henriksen said gravely.

I was stunned.

“I do not see why he would employ a police sergeant from an East London station when he had his own constabulary to hand”, Cas said as we entered.

Henriksen grinned.

“He came to our station before he called at your place”, he said. “He wanted to check you out, and see if you were all he had been told about.”

“By whom?” Cas asked, raising his eyebrow.

“His cleaning-lady happened to work at the station where they had the Ricoletti case a few years back”, Henriksen offered. “She moved here to be nearer her sick sister, and got this joint. When Mr. Zed wanted an investigator, she told him about your solving that case.”

“Small world”, I muttered.

“How did Mr. Zebediah die?” Cas asked, as we entered the lounge and sat down. A butler brought Henriksen a coffee, and quietly whispered to him that he would fetch two more for us, before leaving. The sergeant waited until he had gone before speaking.

“Heart-attack”, he said. “Allegedly.”

“You believe otherwise”, Cas said shrewdly.

“He had a heart condition”, Henriksen said, “I know that, but there's something about the case that seems fishy. That, and I really can't stand his git of a brother!”

III

I had thought Henriksen a bit harsh in his assessment of Zachariah Wriothesley, but after only a few minutes with the man, I revised that assessment to 'undeservedly generous'. The younger Wriothesley was an unctuous little man, a beta just oozing fake sympathy for a brother whose estate he would be responsible for during the next five years. I felt certain that he would take full advantage of that fact, and almost hoped that he was indeed guilty.

“So sad”, he said, wrapping his hands around each other. “Poor, dear Zebediah. But then, he always did have a weak heart. It runs in the family, you know.”

Cas nodded sympathetically.

“Did he talk to you about the apparition?” he asked.

“I am afraid I do not really believe in ghosts”, Mr. Wriothesley said, smiling faintly. “And my brother always did have an over-active imagination.”

“Quite”, Cas said, standing up. “I am sure Sergeant Henriksen will do everything in his power to bring the investigation to a swift conclusion. It is unfortunate, however, that your late brother chose this particular weekend to call on my services.”

“And what services might those be?” Mr. Wriothesley inquired, squinting at him over his circular spectacles.

“I am a consulting detective, sir.”

I did not imagine it. Our portly host definitely flinched.

“It is just that your brother promised to put us up for one night”, Cas said, “and it fitted in perfectly in that our landlady is having minor repair work done to our rooms. I had promised her we would not return until late Sunday evening.....”

“Think nothing of it”, Mr. Wriothesley declared. “Of course we shall be delighted to put you up for tonight. It is the least I can do to honour dear Zebediah's memory.”

Cas bowed.

“Thank you, sir.”

+~+~+

“I did not know there was renovation work on our rooms this weekend”, I said later, when we were walking out into the garden.

“There is not”, Cas said shortly. “But I wanted to look further into this case. Henriksen may have his failings, but he has good instincts. If he suspects foul play, it is worth investigating.”

We entered the cloister, and walked to the door of the Chapel. When we reached the door, Cas drew out a huge old key, but did not immediately open it. Instead, he ran his hands up the hinges of the door.

“Interesting”, he muttered.

“What?” I asked.

He unlocked the door. “What do you hear?” he asked, as he pushed it open.

I listened carefully, but could hear nothing. I said so. Cas shook his head.

“Sometimes there is something in nothing”, he said mysteriously. “This, by the way, is one of only two keys to Chapel, and was always kept in the bedside table of the late Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley. The other was in the possession of his would-be heir, away at school.”

“So no-one else could have entered the Chapel”, I reasoned.

Cas looked at me thoughtfully, then ushered me back outside. He gestured to a small side-door next to the Chapel door.

“That is the only other way out”, he said. “A small room, used by the Chapel's own priest in times past. It is currently occupied by the groundsman, whilst his own house undergoes repairs.”

“Did he hear or see anything?” I asked.

“No”, Cas said. “He was woken up when Mr. Zebediah came down to check out what was happening, but could not help. His room does have a window, but as he sleeps almost right next to the door, no-one could have left the cloister that way without wakening him.”

I did not see where Cas was going with this, but at that moment a cab pulled up outside the main door, and disgorged a small figure, barely visible through the light mist. The constable on duty put an arm around him and led him inside.

“That must be young Wilton Farnsworth”, I said. “Henriksen said he was going to summon the lad back from his school. He does not look much of an alpha to me.”

“A fine homecoming”, Cas observed. “I should like to speak with the housekeeper, alone if that is all right. Could you take a walk and meet me back here in an hour? You might go and find a shop to buy some toiletries, to make our stay here a little more comfortable.”

I was surprised (and not a little peeved) at being dismissed in this way, but I supposed he must have had his reasons. I nodded, and walked off into the mist.

+~+~+

“Was your talk with the housekeeper informative?” I asked him in his room later, as I waited for him to change for dinner. He always insisted on formal wear, even if his hair looked permanently like he had slept in a hedge. During a tornado.

“Look in the drawer by the fire, and see what I found”, he smiled, fiddling with a cuff-link. 

I did, and found a single red satin glove. I did not see at first, but then it struck me.

“You found the priest's clothes!” I exclaimed.

“That is all that remains of them”, he said. 

“But how did you know where to look?” I asked.

He finished dressing, and turned to smile at me.

“I found it in the one place where I knew to look for it”, he said cryptically, before starting for the stairs.

I hated it when he did that!

+~+~+

Dinner was a tense affair, with Mr. Zachariah Wriothesley clearly on poor terms with his new charge. I supposed it had to be difficult, especially for the boy; all that money, but he had to yield control over it to a relative he clearly disliked. I was glad when it was over, and we could retire to our rooms.

Henriksen reappeared the following morning, only to vanish again after a swift conversation with Cas. When we met in the cloister soon afterwards, I asked him what was afoot.

“Twelve inches”, he said, looking puzzled.

I resisted the urge to hit him.

“I mean, have there been any developments?” I managed through gritted teeth.

That was when I saw the gleam in his blue eyes. The bastard was playing with me. I was almost tempted to risk another pout, but I decided to wait, at least until after the train journey home.

“If Sergeant Henriksen can motivate the local constabulary to co-operate”, he said with a smile, “and if our excellent telegraphic service lives up to expectations, then I expect to provide you with a murderer by this evening.”

“I thought you said you knew who it was?” I pointed out.

“My knowing and my being able to prove are, regrettably, two different things”, Cas said. “But if all goes to plan, dinner should be quite interesting.

+~+~+

Henriksen arrived back at just after four o'clock, and I hoped from the copious amount of papers he brought with him that his quest had been successful. He and the local sergeant both sat down to dinner with us, and Cas mentioned casually that he and I would be departing on the evening train directly afterwards.

“We shall miss you”, Zachariah Wriothesley said insincerely. “Won't we, Wilton?”

The teenager huffed. I smiled to myself. 

“It has been a fascinating case”, Cas said, helping himself to potatoes. “I understand that modern crime fiction novels are fond of murder disguised as a heart-attack, but in real-life it is surprisingly rare.”

You could have heard a pin drop, We all stared at him.

“Murder?” Zachariah Wriothesley said at last.

“Don't look so surprised”, Cas chided. “You killed him.”

IV

I thought for a moment that the man was going to follow his brother out of this world by giving up the ghost. 

“That, sir”, he sniffed”, “is a scurrilous and baseless accusation.”

“Hardly baseless, as I can prove it”, Cas said dryly. “And certainly not scurrilous, as it is true.” He put down the potato bowl and looked around the table. “Pass the salt please, Nathan.”

“Sure”, the teenager said, and handed it over.

Cas looked triumphant, and I could see Zachariah Wriothesley putting his head in his hands. Then it struck the boy.

“Who's Nathan?” he said, far too late.

Cas turned to the two sergeants. 

“Gentlemen”, he intoned, “allow me to present Mr. Nathan Wriothesley, second son to the gentleman at the far end of this table, Mr. Zachariah Wriothesley.”

The boy looked panicked, and stared at his father.

“You fool!” Zachariah Wriothesley ground out. “You bloody fool!”

“It was well-planned”, Cas explained. “When it became clear that Zebediah Wriothesley was looking for a possible heir, his brother first offered his own eldest son, knowing because of the rift between them that that such an offer would be refused, then did some in-depth 'research' to discover a distant cousin whose parents had died, and was in danger of being dispatched to the workhouse in Southend. The two had never met, so the victim could not know what the younger son looked like. Wilton Farnsworth, alias Nathan Wriothesley, duly settled in well to the life of an heir to a great estate, and would in time have probably made a good fist of it.”

“Except, of course, his father was not minded to wait. Knowing that if the boy inherited under-age that he himself would get control of the estate – and I am sure it would have been well milked in those years – he arranges for the visions of a man crossing the cloisters to the old chapel, the 'ghost' of a Red Friar.”

“How did the 'ghost' disappear?” I asked.

Cas turned to me.

“Do you remember, Doctor, that when I pushed open the Chapel door, I asked you what you heard?” he said.

“But I didn't hear anything!” I objected.

“Exactly”, he said, The door was used once a month for services, yet it did not creak at all. It had been oiled, so it would open silently. You will also remember that the groundsman's room is directly next to that door. Any excess noise would have risked waking him.”

Cas stared icily at Zachariah Wriothesley and his son, who had edged round to table to be close to his father.

“On the night of the murder, you made sure that one of the maids took a message to the groundsman. You waited outside the door, then appeared behind her in your costume, just as she was leaving. She screamed and fainted, and you had time to go through the Chapel door and lock it with your son's key, as well as changing your clothes. You then slipped out of the back of the chapel and emerged from 'a walk'. Having calmed the maid and reported the matter to your brother, you returned to the Chapel, retrieved your costume, and went to your room. Where you made your sole mistake.”

He produced the single red glove with a flourish.

“You returned to your room, and doubtless prepared to destroy the costume”, Cas said. “However, someone came to the room unexpectedly, and you had to hastily shove the whole thing into the chest that stands at the foot of the bed. Once they had gone, you retrieved it and burnt it – but by the workings of Providence, one of the red gloves remained in the chest undetected. I think you will find it hard to explain how a Red Friar's costume glove came to be in your room.”

I noticed that Henriksen had surreptitiously moved to block the door.

“You then went to your brother's room and killed him, I would suggest by smothering”, Cas continued mercilessly. 

“But why did the doctor they called not spot that?” I could not help but object.

“Because he was not looking for it”, Cas explained. “He was not taken to a body and asked, 'how did this man die?'. He was shown Mr. Zebediah's body, told of his weak heart and the story of the ghost, and asked 'did this man die of a heart-attack?' Knowing the patient had a weak heart, he would have concurred. But”... and the detective's lit up triumphantly, “he did say one damning thing in his report.”

“What?” I asked.

“The victim apparently had a small goose-feather in his mouth, from his own pillow”, Cas said, looking meaningfully at Zachariah Wriothesley.”

“A jury won't hang me on that!” the man sneered.

Cas suddenly turned on Nathan Wriothesley, who quailed before him.

“Henriksen, Pelham”, he said harshly. “I think you should take young Master Wriothesley in for questioning. And perhaps point out to him exactly what happens to convicted criminals of his tender age in our modern gaols.”

The two sergeants, moved to stand either side of the boy, who looked up in alarm, clearly terrified.

“Dad?” he asked.

“Come with us, sonny”, Pelham smiled nastily. “It's going to be a long night for you....”

+~+~+

There is little more to be said. Nathan Wriothesley confessed all, and tried to lay the blame squarely on his father for his uncle's murder. He was sentenced to twelve years in jail, at the end of which time he immediately left the country for parts unknown. His father pleaded innocent, but twelve good men and true did not believe him, and he swung from the gallows before the year was out. Ryland Wriothesley, a distant cousin, inherited Beaumont Priory, but sold it on immediately rather than live there, and the house passed to new owners, I know not whom. It was sold again and knocked down some years later for housing.

Christmas that year was quiet (and mercifully free from any further 'supernatural' happenings!), but in the lull before the New Year, I received a letter.

“They wish to publish your story about the 'Gloria Scott'”, Cas observed.

I did not even ask how he knew. Little surprised me about the man any more.

“They do”, I said. “In five installments in the magazine, starting next month. And they have advanced a most handsome fee.” I looked across at him, suddenly feeling almost shy for some reason. “Half of it is yours, really.”

He smiled at me.

“Thank you, old friend”, he said, “but as you know, I am financially secure. You should add to your savings, for when you meet the future Mrs. or Monseigneur Winchester.”

He left to go to his room, and I stared after him. He was, of course, right. It was hardly as if the two of us would go on solving cases forever, was it? So why did that thought feel so painful in my gut?

+~+~+

In our next case, I take medical experimentation to a dangerous new level.....


	6. Case 14: Nightmare (1881)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, referred to elsewhere as the Manor House Case.

I

Few people can have exploded – literally, in his case – into the lives of Cas and myself than the hapless Doctor Nebuchadnezzar Adams. At a time of great medical advancement, I remember thinking more than once that the day could soon come whereby Mankind would have to make some difficult choices about what could be done in the name of humanity, and what actually should be done. One of the first people to face that dilemma was Doctor Adams, whose medical discoveries... well, read on.

+~+~+

London, then as now, was a city full of surprises. However, few surpassed the one at breakfast that Spring morning, when the place was for once not wrapped in its standard fog and looking almost presentable. Cas had had several cases since Christmas and our encounter with the Wriothesleys in Essex, but none had been worthy of note.

I was sat awaiting my friend at the breakfast table; normally he was horrible in the mornings, although occasionally – and this morning had been one of those occasions – he would sneak into my bed and wake me far more effectively than any alarm clock. Going from deep sleep to coming violently was one hell of a way to start any day, and I would be lying if I said I did not love it!

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, and eyed the cushion on the settee. I was thinking of risking standing and retrieving it when there was a muffled explosion from outside. I hurried to the window and opened it, and leaning out saw that there was smoke coming from the building – the daftly named 'Manor House', if my memory served me correctly - three houses down on the opposite side of the road. Fortunately there did not seem to be any flames, and after a short while the smoke died away, probably to the disappointment of the inevitable crowd of onlookers.....

“Now there's a sight I could get used to!”

I squawked in surprise, and of course hit my head on the window-frame in my haste to get back inside. Cas, silent as ever, had emerged from his room and clearly been eyeing my backside as I observed developments outside. I turned a deep red, my discomposure not helped by the fact that he was as imperturbable as ever, blue dressing-gown over gold and green pyjamas and looking like he had just walked out of an advertisement in the Times. I knew that I, on the other hand, looked all too much like someone who had been woken somewhat irregularly.

“There was an explosion”, I said, stating the obvious as ever.

I was spared his witty remarks by the sound of banging at the house door, followed by hurried steps on the stairs. Just moments later, our door flew open and a scruffy man all but fell in, to the evident consternation of Janet the maid, who was hurrying up behind him. He was about forty-five years of age, a beta by the size of him and clearly over-excited.

“Gentlemen!” he panted. “I am Doctor Nebuchadnezzar Adams!”

Had he declared himself rightful King of England, it would have better fitted his tone. Clearly we were meant to either be impressed and/or to know who he was, and in both those ambitions he failed.

“Please be seated, Doctor Adams”, Cas said calmly, leading him to the fireside chair whilst I went to the table to get my notepad and pencil. “Am I to assume that your presence here is due to the loud report that came from the street some minutes past?”

Somehow the doctor's face went even redder.

“Sabotage!” he spluttered. “Those ne'er-do-wells at the University are jealous of my research.”

“And precisely what are you researching?” Cas asked languidly. I readied my pencil.

“Sex.”

I nearly broke my pencil. Cas, of course, did not even flinch.

“Can you be a little more precise, doctor?”

“I am researching as to whether certain status groups can increase their chances of acquiring a mate by intensifying their innate scent”, he explained. “You know, like sigmas do naturally.”

I exchanged a pointed glance with my friend.

“And what form do these investigations take?” Cas asked.

“The subject attempts to boost their scent's carrying power by the application of various chemical compounds I am experimenting with”, the doctor said. “My assistant Mr. Wade – a reliable fellow beta, if a little young – is prone to give them fanciful names, but that is his only weakness. We had what seemed a modicum of success with the last one, which he called 'Nightmare' because of its dark colouring, but seemingly our test subject was bullied into pulling out of the experiment, and would not say by whom. All we had was a message this morning to say he would not be coming in. And now this!”

Cas pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks that both our sigma scents were completely undetectable except to each other and any other sigmas, otherwise who knew what the doctor would have done? And the odds of another sigma were virtually nil; the room currently contained what could well be half the sigma population of England!

“I think the doctor and I should come and see your laboratory”, he said, “or at least what remains of it. I suggest you return there and try to avoid touching anything, and the doctor and I will be along once we have breakfasted and dressed.”

Judging from his expression, our visitor was a little put out by Cas' apparent lack of urgency, but he nodded and excused himself. Cas looked after him thoughtfully.

+~+~+

Just under an hour later we had crossed the road and were inside the Manor House. Structural engineers were still checking the building, but they had deemed it safe to enter, the only problem being the lingering stench of smoke. One wall along the side of the building had been partly destroyed, and the laboratory itself was a mess. Cas looked around him.

“You said you have an assistant”, he reminded the doctor. “Is he available?”

“He should have been in by now”, the doctor said, sounding vexed. “He normally works in the small room through there. I was supposed to have left for my train and a day with my sister in Colchester, but I overslept.”

He gestured to a battered green door in one wall of the room. Cas crossed to it, opened it and looked into the room behind.

“Doctor”, he said far too casually, “can you come and take a look at this?”

Worried, I crossed the room and looked through the door. The small room behind was where the explosion had clearly been centred, the wall to the outside having been the one partly demolished, affording an excellent view of the wall of the adjoining house less than five feet away. There was some shattered glass on the floor, for which the doctor later explained that the wall had contained a door (always locked, and he had the only key) with an overhead window. 

Oh, and there was a dead body on the floor.

II

“Mr. Wade!” Doctor Adams exclaimed in horror.

I hurried forward to examine the dead man. Apart from the fact that his horrified expression (which I tried not to look at) suggested that he had seen his doom coming upon him, it was unclear as to exactly what he had died of.

“A heart-attack is the most likely cause of death”, I remarked, scratching my head, “but I cannot for the life of me see what caused it. He was a healthy young man, and unless he had some inherent health problem, it is a mystery.”

“He was very fit”, Doctor Adams said. “He walked here from his house every day, even though it is at least two miles away.”

Cas looked thoughtfully around the room, then nodded to himself before ushering us both out and closing the door behind him.

“Doctor Adams”, he said calmly, “today I would like you to do a complete inventory of things here, and tell me what, if anything, is missing. I would stay and help, but as my friend the doctor knows, I have an appointment in the City today that I cannot miss.”

“I can stay and help”, I offered. “It is my day off.”

“That would be appreciated”, Cas smiled, though I sensed there was a strain behind the smile. “I shall also need a complete list of everyone who came to the house in the past twenty-four hours, and your assistant's movements up to the time of his death.”

“Have you any idea who could have done this?” Doctor Adams wondered. “Surely not a fellow medic?”

“The currently available facts suggest that your fellow doctors are innocent in this particular matter”, Cas said, “but I would rather wait until you have checked to see what is missing. If it what I think it is, then the matter is easily resolved. I shall however be inquiring as to why your recent test subject withdrew.”

Doctor Adams looked annoyed, but I could tell that Cas would say no more. He quickly left, and I set about helping the doctor line up what remained of his samples.

+~+~+

“That is odd”, Doctor Adams remarked as we checked the remaining samples. “I am missing a large bottle of Nightmare.”

I smiled covertly at the ridiculous name.

“How large a bottle?” I asked.

“The equivalent of thirty-six of these vials”, he replied, holding up a tiny empty glass vial that could not have contained more than a teaspoonful of liquid. “Since Mr. Wade's notes were in that room, I shall have to start again from scratch.”

“Is there enough in there for what you want?” I wondered. 

The doctor smiled.

“This is one full dose”, he explained. “Applied to the scent glands, it magnifies the man's or woman's innate scent by a factor of several dozen, at least. It is powerful material, doctor.”

“A love potion”, I muttered.

“Actually no”, he countered. “My earlier experiments showed that where there is not at least a basic attraction between two people, the effect is negligible. After all, several dozen times nothing is still nothing.”

I thought about that as I checked the scene of the explosion one last time. Under the solid oak desk, which had survived the explosion charred but unbowed, I found one more small vial, filled this time. 

I slid it quietly into my pocket.

+~+~+

I fully expected to see Doctor Adams that evening, but late that evening he wired us to say that he would have to stay the night in Essex, and would see us the following evening instead. Instead, I took Cas through my list of people who had come to the house.

“The housekeeper is a Mrs. Bell”, I said, “and frankly she is terrifying! I doubt even one of those Turkish rug salesmen could get past her. Think Elizabeth the Great, but with even more attitude! She had the maids come down and made sure they told me everything.”

I opened my notebook.

“Doctor Adams' house had three visitors the day before the explosion, not including tradespeople who never got further than the kitchen”, I said. “The first caller was a fellow medic, a Doctor Wealdstone...”

“Not him”, Cas said at once. 

I looked at him in surprise, but he said nothing. He had come home in a rather bad mood, and I hoped it had nothing to do with my using too much hot water for the bath I had taken on arriving not long before him. 

“In the afternoon, at around two, Doctor Adams' brother – well, half-brother – Doctor Rusper called round”, I said. “The two do not get on; Doctor Rusper part-owns a medical magazine which recently published an article highly critical of Doctor Adams' studies. And Doctor Rusper walked straight into where Mr. Wade was working.”

“Mr. Wade spotted him?” Cas asked.

“Not immediately”, I said. “Doctor Adams told me that his assistant often got carried away in his studies, and had not noticed he himself entering and leaving a room. And finally Mrs. Sellers, one of the doctor's few regular patients, called round to collect some pills, which was unusual.”

“Why?” Cas asked.

“She is rich enough to send a servant”, I said, “although she said she was visiting a friend in the area as it happened. Doctor Adams was in the water closet when she called, and she was alone in the laboratory for some little time. The assistant had gone out for lunch.”

“But no appreciable motive”, Cas said. “No, it cannot be her, either. What about the day in question?”

“Mr. Wade arrived at eight, half an hour ahead of his usual start time”, I said, reading my notes. “As it happened, it was just as well, because he left his umbrella at the local paper shop, and had to dash back for it.”

Cas smiled knowingly. I hated it when he did that!

“He returned to the house at a quarter-past eight”, I said, “and the explosion that took his life happened fifteen minutes later. I do not see how that helps us, really.”

“On the contrary”, Cas said. “It makes everything almost completely clear. Tell me, did Mr. Wade have a female or omega he was pursuing a relationship with?”

“Yes”, I said, “though I don't see how that helps. A local omega called Albert Salton, only recently turned twenty-one. What does he have to do with all this?”

“I hope to be able to tell Doctor Adams that tomorrow”, he said mysteriously. “Oh, and I eliminated the possibility of the test subject. Mr. Allen inherited a house in Surrey from an uncle he barely knew, and had to go there to sort out the legal matters surrounding that as a matter of urgency.”

I would have glared at him for his evasion, but I had plans for that evening. Instead I just went to get my book and smiled inwardly.

+~+~+

“All right, Nightmare”, I muttered as I carefully dabbed the small amount of black liquid against my neck, rubbing it into my skin. “Let's see you work your magic and....”

III

The door to my bedroom flew open, and Cas stood there, panting. His dressing-gown was half off, and I just had time to notice that, unusually, he was not wearing his pyjamas underneath it before he was onto me, pushing me backwards onto the bed. I fell back, biting back a grin as I anticipated what was to come. Me, hopefully.

I was glad I had taken the precaution of removing my own clothing beforehand, as I was sure that Cas in his current mood would have ripped off any obstacles to his love-making. He eyed my rapidly hardening cock before going down and sucking me off as if his life depended on it. I could only lie back and shudder as he quite literally sucked the orgasm out of me, coming violently and collapsing back into a satisfied lump of flesh.

Except that it seemed Cas was far from satisfied, and I began to feel just a bit nervous at the ravenous look in those dark blue eyes. Effortlessly, he pinned my legs back and quickly worked me open, deliberately fingering my prostate and causing my now sensitive cock to twitch uselessly. Then he was driving home, and amazingly I did come a second time as he continued to thrust into me.

And continued. And continued. And.....

My last thought before I passed out was to wonder hell, what had I done?

+~+~+

I was incredibly grateful that the next day was a Sunday, as when I woke I found myself not only alone in the bed but seemingly unable to move. Every muscle in my body (and especially the ones in my backside) groaned in protest as I tried to shift my position.

“Good morning!”

I decided at that particular moment that I absolutely hated Castiel James Novak. He looked fully awake and one hundred per cent functional, whilst I was a piece of human flotsam. And I had brought it all on myself.

“Last night was fun”, Cas said lightly. “Are you up for another round?”

I stared at him incredulously. My bottom lip may or may not have quivered.

“You must be joking!” I retorted, wincing as even speech apparently needed muscles that were less than fully functional. “I'm practicing abstinence for the next week at least!”

He looked at me in disappointment and smiled.... and then took something from his pocket. It was a small glass vial. A horribly full, familiar glass vial. He unscrewed the top and looked pointedly at me.

“No!” I protested weakly, fearing that sex right now might be the end of me, especially dosed up on even more of that Nightmare stuff. It might well live up to its name, after all.

“Do you recognize this, Dean?” he asked quietly.

I nodded, suddenly ashamed. 

“And do you know what it contains?” he asked.

I nodded again.

“Red and blue food colouring”, he said.

I nodded....

“What?” I demanded, making the mistake of trying to sit up, which made my body remind me forcibly that no, that was not happening any time soon.

“I found this in your room when I came home yesterday”, he grinned. “I substituted the contents for some colouring that Mrs. MacAndrew kindly gave me. For shame, Dean Winchester. Trying to seduce a fellow alpha into having sex with you, when all you had to do was ask.”

Realization hit me like an express train.

“Wait a minute!” I ground out. “If that was just food colouring, then you.... were faking it?”

He grinned mischievously.

“Oh, I was definitely not faking it!” he chuckled. “As I just told you, frankly I would love another turn right now, but I do not think your poor old body would stand the strain.”

I huffed indignantly. The fact he was quite correct made it even more annoying.

“Right!” I muttered. “See if I put out for you in the next week!”

He quirked an eyebrow at me, then chuckled again and left me to recover. I scowled, then winced at the effort even that took. 

Yes, a whole week. Well, five days was a week. Sort of.

IV

Doctor Adams was due later that day, so I was not surprised to see Cas setting the table up for coffees. The doctor arrived punctually at half-past five as requested, and Cas bade him sit down.

“I am also expecting someone else”, he explained, “who I expect can throw a more direct light on the events surrounding your unfortunate assistant's demise.”

“His killer?” Doctor Adams asked, clearly aghast.

“Not exactly”, Cas said mysteriously.

Before either of us could press him to explain that cryptic remark, there was a knock at the door. Cas opened it and ushered in a small, undernourished-looking omega, with flaxen hair and an expression that was verging on terrified. Doctor Adams looked surprised at the sight of him.

“Albert?” he said querulously. “What are you doing here?”

Cas helped the omega be seated at the table opposite me, and took his position by the fireplace. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he enjoyed these moments in cases, explaining what had happened and how he had cracked the case. Well, he deserved his moment of vanity.

I shifted uneasily on my cushion.

“When is said that Mr. Salton here was 'not exactly' the killer of his boyfriend Mr. Wade, I spoke the truth”, Cas began. “It is a most unfortunate tale, in that whilst Mr. Salton was responsible for Mr. Wade's death, it was an accident arising from a most unusual set of circumstances.”

Mr. Salton sniffed dolefully.

“Whilst in your home yesterday, doctor, I abstracted one of the vials of Nightmare”, Cas continued, giving me a swift side-glance. “I wished to have it scientifically tested by a friend in London to see if my theory, which I knew was right in every other aspect, was totally correct. The telegram I received at noon today was only confirmation of what really happened that cold April morn.”

“Mr. Wade comes to the house some time before his normal hour, which was remarked upon by more than one person as highly unusual. I tied this in with something you told me, Doctor Adams, namely that you expected to be away from the house all that day, but had been delayed in your departure. Most fortunately for you in light of what was about to happen, some distance away in another part of the house.”

“Mr. Wade had decided that, with his employer supposedly out of the house that day, he would smuggle in his boyfriend to keep him company at work. He arrives early, and slips in unseen through the servants' entrance. Next, he passes his long-coat out through the narrow window over the door in his room to Mr. Salton who is waiting outside. As you told me, that door is kept locked and you have the only key, so no-one could have gained access to the house that way.”

“After a few moments, Mr. Wade calls to one of the maids that he had left his umbrella at the paper-shop, and is dashing back to retrieve it. He disappears back to his room, and some minutes later Mr. Salton, disguised in his long-coat, manages to join him undetected. It is a busy time of the day for the servants, and no-one is likely to notice that the Mr. Wade who 'returns' is shorter than the one who arrived ten minutes earlier. The entrance to the laboratory is near the front door to which Mr. Wade does have a key, so the risk of detection is minimal.”

Mr. Salton blushed, and looked at his feet.

“It is now, unfortunately, that disaster strikes”, Cas explained. “Doubtless Mr. Wade had explained to his omega boyfriend that the Nightmare preparation greatly increased the human scent, enabling the wearer to more likely attract a suitable mate. I would surmise that, at an untimely moment, Mr. Wade had to visit the water closet. Mr. Salton, left alone in the small room, finds the large bottle of Nightmare waiting to be apportioned into vials. Foolishly, he applies a liberal amount to his own scent glands.”

Our omega guest tried unsuccessfully to bite back a sob. Cas sent him a comforting look.

“You could not know either that you had greatly exceeded the advised dosage, or that the effect on omega glands, which are far more powerful than those of alphas or betas, would be so much more pronounced”, he said ruefully. “Poor Mr. Wade came through the door, walked up to you, took one sniff and promptly had a heart-attack. The desire and the want overloaded the human body, which at the end of the day is a fragile thing. Something many scientists might do well to remember.”

I noticed Doctor Adams lowering his glance at the reproof.

“And the explosion?” he muttered to the fireside rug.

“In his panic to get out, I would suggest that Mr. Salton knocked over the remains of the Nightmare”, Cas said. “We know, because you told us, that Mr. Wade often had several sets of chemicals on his table where he worked, and from the amount of glass around the work-table he must have set up for the day. Whilst your compound seems to have some success in its aims, Doctor Adams, my scientist friend tells me that it is quite reactive, and exposure to a large quantity of several common chemicals could result in an explosion. Clearly that was what happened this time.”

“I hid behind the desk when I saw the black stuff bubbling”, Mr. Salton said, his voice breaking as he spoke, “and that protected me from the worst of the blast. Then I escaped through the broken wall. It leads to an alley that runs along the back of the houses, and I got out that way.”

“Clearly not murder”, Cas said firmly, “as there was no premeditation, let alone motive. Rather a tragic accident. I might suggest, doctor, that your researching energies be directed somewhere else in future.”

The doctor nodded fervently.

+~+~+

“Poor Mr. Salton!” I said later, once our guests had gone their separate ways. “He only wanted to surprise his boyfriend, and look what happened!”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “People who mess with things they know not are just asking for trouble.”

I looked at him sharply, but he merely smiled innocently back at me. 

“How did you know none of the three people who came to the house could not be involved?” wondered

“Because when I checked under the oak desk, the scent of omega was still powerful there”, Cas said. “Clearly there had to have been an omega in the room, which from what I thought had happened was most likely the victim's boyfriend. Of the two males, both were doctors, so clearly not omegas.”

“Do you think they will ever manage to create something that will work like Nightmare should have done?” I wondered. “After all, that is what humanity is all about – finding your perfect partner.”

“Not for me”, Cas said firmly. “I have found mine already.”

I blushed, and resolved to reduce his five days to three as a reward.

Maybe even two.

+~+~+

He did not have to wait even two days.

+~+~+

Medical matters again in our next case, as a certain Mr. Novak ends up suffering from a potentially deadly illness....


	7. Case 15: Faith (1881)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Resident Patient'.

I

The Victorians, it has been said, were all about family, and this is a story about family. Cas' family. 

The reader will remember that although my friend had five elder brothers, two of whom were alphas, there was still some familial pressure on him to marry and produce an heir. Of his alpha brothers, Michael was so unpleasant in my humble opinion that it was amazing he had found someone tolerant enough to put up with him despite his money, whilst Lucifer had married and had an alpha son, but he was semi-estranged from the family for reasons I knew not (though I would later discover that they involved my friend). I have already mentioned the obnoxious Balthazar, and had yet to meet Gabriel and Raphael, the three kappas. Fate would show that in this I had been singularly fortunate.

Five months had elapsed since the explosive (in all senses) Manor House Affair, during which there had been a steady stream of mostly uninteresting cases. That does not include the ones Cas turned down; he was at one time requested (albeit by the sister of a duchess) to find a lost fountain-pen. I have rarely seen the great detective lost for words, but that was one such day. To his credit, he took (and solved) that 'case'; I recall that he was amused by my rolling around with laughter after the lady had left, in between telling me what he would do to me if I ever published or even mentioned.... oops!

+~+~+

As I have mentioned, my story about the “Gloria Scott” case ('Pilot') was published in the Strand magazine at the start of the year. It received a surprisingly positive reception, and I had thought little more of it until June, when I was approached by the publishers Watson and Holmes. They were assembling a book containing twenty-four detective stories, each written by a different writer; one had pulled out at the last minute, so they asked if they could use my story. I felt a little irked at being brought on as a substitute in this way, but their payment was generous and Cas agreed, so I said yes. The book sold well, and at least I had the extra money to soothe my injured pride.

The sales were pushed by the book's reviews, which were very positive, two reviewers singling out my efforts for particular praise. It was then September, and unbeknownst to me Cas was having renewed difficulties with his family. Unhappily, I made the mistake of asking him what he thought of my efforts, and he had sniffed that I 'tended to the over-dramatic'. The criticism had stung, and I had retorted that that was what people wanted in such articles. He had looked startled by my reaction, but I had stormed off to my room in a show of petulance that my teenage self would have been proud of.

I was still cross with him the following day, and unusually he disappeared out immediately after breakfast, saying he had to get something. I wondered glumly if he had a new case, and no longer wished me to accompany him. Sighing, I packed my bag and left for the surgery.

It was, of course, a particularly long and trying day. Far too many of the patients I saw had nothing really wrong with them; they just wanted to spend money to be told that they had acquired some illness they could talk about with their friends. I felt particularly grouchy, and left the place as soon as I had got rid of my last patient, who had thought a mild autumn cough enough reason to see a doctor. Honestly!

I stomped back to our rooms, and was almost grateful to find no sign of my room-mate. Or so I thought, until I saw a small jewellery-box at my place on our table, with a folded piece of card on top of it. The single-word message read 'Sorry!'. I smiled, in spite of myself, then removed it and opened the box.

Then I gasped. 

Four months ago. That was when it was, after Cas and I had visited Sergeant Henriksen at his station. He had wanted to buy his sister an engagement present, so I had agreed to tag along whilst he shopped afterwards. He had purchased her a gold necklace from a jewellery shop, where I had been entranced by a solid gold amulet, in the shape of a devil's head but with a strange symbol on it. I had asked about it, and the shop-owner had explained it was the letters A, O and V combined, for the saying omnia vincit amor – love conquers all. Despite the mushy idea, I had been entranced by it, but as I said, it was solid gold, and there was no way I could afford such a bauble. But Cas, damn him, had remembered.

“Hullo, Dean.”

I looked up, and he was standing at the door to his room, looking uncertainly at me. The room must not have been dusted that day, for I had unaccountable tears in my eyes. That had to be it.

“I would wish you to wear that on special occasions”, he said softly, still not approaching. “Whenever I see it, I will be reminded of the value of your friendship, which I know I do not always appreciate.”

I fingered the amulet, then let it go and held out my arms towards him. He hesitated only briefly before striding across the room, and holding me tightly as if he were afraid I would leave. As if I could. I never wanted to leave this man!

+~+~+

I was tentatively writing up my notes for a story concerning the Musgrave Ritual when we happened across our next case. Or to be more exact, our next case happened across us. It was only a minor matter and no crime was involved as such, but it was important in that it shed light on several aspects of my friend's life which had hitherto remained hidden from me, which is why I have included it in the canon. That, and the total lack of sympathy I felt for the 'victim', who fully deserves to have their foibles exposed to the world!

(Cas chose this point in time to make a most untoward remark about the exposing of foibles, one that was quite uncalled for. Everyone knows I did not mean it in that way!).

We had been blessed so far that, during our time in Cramer Street, our sightings of the fragrant (!) Mrs. Evadne Hall had been few and far between. Fortunately, as had been promised, she concerned herself primarily with her house in Belgravia, leaving the management of Cramer Street to her sister, Miss Letitia Hellingly. A much smaller (and infinitely less pungent) character, she always looked almost apologetic when either Cas or I handed over our weekly rent. Her servants kept our rooms adequately clean and her cook was passable enough, but she rarely ventured upstairs herself, confining herself to her own suite at the back of the house. It was therefore with some surprise that I returned from work one day to find Miss Hellingly in our suite of rooms, talking to Cas. For some reason, it was only at that moment that it struck me that both of them were unmarried and fairly attractive people. 

I did not know why (or I did, and did not wish to think about it), but that observation made me feel uneasy. Miss Hellingly was clearly somewhat perturbed at my return, and swiftly took her leave. Cas sighed.

“It may be that our dear landlady had provided us with a potential case”, he said. 

I was somewhat distracted at this moment, as Miss Hellingly's presence had caused me to run over Cas' singular lack of interest in the fairer sex more or less ever since I had known him. It is the way of the world, of course, than a young alpha will have sex with anything that moves, and for that matter anything that doesn't, but we were both approaching an age when we would be expected to settle down with a woman or omega and start raising a family. Depressingly, I would be thirty in four months' time, over two and half years before Cas, which was blatantly unfair!

Given our circumstances, both of us had to careful in selecting potential mates; I needed someone financially secure, whilst he would probably have to win his family's approval, an even higher hurdle. He could do a lot worse than our landlady.....

“Dean?”

He was looking at me in confusion. I blushed.

“Sorry, my mind was elsewhere”, I said. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

He looked at me uncertainly, but did not push the issue.

“Miss Hellingly is concerned over her newest tenant, the beta gentleman who has taken room three”, he said. “She is, I think, a little paranoid simply because he refuses to admit the maid to his rooms, and insist that his washing is collected and returned outside his door.”

“They probably just value their privacy”, I said. “Though I would wager Miss Hellingly thinks he is a secret axe-murderer!”

“Our landlady is also quite observant”, Cas said, looking hard at me for some reason. “She may not stoop to listening at keyholes, but on passing the room the other day, she was certain that she heard a lady's voice.”

“Highly improper”, I said. “If she thinks that sort of thing is going on in her own house, then she would be quite within her rights to give the tenant a week's notice.”

To my surprise, Cas blushed. What was going on?

“It is the case”, he said slowly, “that, ahem, a certain amount of romance may be involved.”

I stared at him in surprise. Cas and Miss Hellingly? Had I been right, after all? My heart sank.

“So that is why she wants you to investigate”, I said, a little dourly. “Well, if she has a great detective on hand, I suppose it is only natural.”

He nodded, and at that moment the bell rang to inform us that dinner was ready for our attention. Our conversation ended there, and I felt inexplicably grumpy for the rest of the evening.

II

Two weeks later, the carelessness of a maid brought a whole new aspect to the mystery of room three.

The surgery I worked at lay in a row of houses, and on the afternoon in question, a fire occurred at the house next door. This, it later emerged, was due to a maid leaving a fire unguarded. Fortunately London's finest were soon on the scene and were able to douse the flames, although the house in question was badly damaged. Worse, they insisted that we quit the surgery until structural engineers had checked it for damage. As that would not be until the early evening, our remaining appointments were rescheduled, and I was thus back at Cramer Street three hours ahead of my time. Which may have been why I saw an unusual, if not unknown sight outside our house.

The carriage of Sir Charles Novak. 

I wondered if he had cone to see his youngest son or, possibly, myself, and went on up to our rooms. Cas was not there, but as I took off my coat I heard the sound of someone leaving room three on the floor below. Stepping out of my door and peering over the balcony, I was surprised to recognize the unmistakable red curly hair and powder-blue dress of Miss Anael Novak, Sir Charles' only daughter. Emerging from room three!

I stared at her in shock. 

It would, of course, be my bad luck that Miss Hellingly chanced to come down the same corridor at that precise moment (I wondered cattily how many times she had patrolled the corridor since Miss Novak's arrival), and meet her. They conversed briefly, and judging from the way the visitor gestured upwards, I assumed that she was ascertaining if her brother was at home. I realized this too late, for she glanced up and saw me, and even though I backed away quickly, I was sure that was I saw in her eyes was fear. Certain it was that she did not come up, but swiftly left the house.

I briefly considered questioning Miss Hellingly as to our noble visitor, but decided to desist, for now at least. I had a more pressing problem, namely whether to inform Cas that his sister had visited in his absence, and had conversed with the mysterious stranger in room three. Or – and I shuddered at the thought – what if she had been the female whose voice had been heard? Was she conducting some sort of illicit liaison with the occupant, and if so, why right next to where her own brother was living? 

I needed a drink.

+~+~+

I had decided not to say anything to Cas about our visitor. Of course, I should have known better.

“What has upset you, Dean?” he asked over dinner that evening. Miss Hellingly, whose culinary offerings were plain if unexciting, had for once surpassed herself with a curried meat dish that had been divine, and we were both sat by the fire, comfortably full. There had been ice-cream rather than pie for dessert, but one could not have everything. “You have been off ever since I got home.”

“Did you go out on a case today?” I said, trying to deflect.

He clearly saw my tactics, but chose to answer my question.

“Every so often I go and meet one or other of my brothers at my club, and use the gymnasium facilities”, he said. “My occupation is fairly sedentary, so I need the exercise.”

I instinctively pulled in my own gut. He did not smirk, but it was close.

“You are upset over the lady who visited room three earlier this afternoon?” he asked.

Damnation! He must have spoken to Miss Hellingly when he had come in.

“Not exactly who I was expecting”, I muttered.

“A short woman wearing a blue dress, with either red or dyed hair.”

“Miss Hellingly did not mention her name?” I asked.

“I have not spoken to our estimable landlady.”

“Then how could you know....?”

“There was a blue thread caught in the bannister, which was not there when I left after lunch”, he said. “There was also a single red hair in front of the doorway when I returned. The lady is obviously very well-off.”

“How could you know that?” I asked, wondering if he was teasing me.

“She came in her own carriage”, Cas said. “A four-wheeled vehicle was parked for some considerable time in front of our house, long enough to leave an indentation in the road surface.”

“You know, don't you?” I asked, exasperatedly.

“Know what?” he asked.

“That it was your sister!”

Ah. Judging from his reaction, that was about the only thing he had not known. There was a silence that was several degrees beyond awkward.

“You are sure?” he said, his voice unnaturally quiet.

“I saw the carriage outside”, I told him. “And I saw her come out of the room.”

“Did she see you?”

“Sorry. She did.”

He pursed his lips. There was another overly long silence.

“I think I should pay a call on my sister tomorrow”, he said. “I am sorry, Dean, but in the circumstances I would rather go alone.”

“It is family”, I assured him. “Of course I understand.”

He smiled weakly at me.

III

The whole business of Miss Novak's visit to the house bothered me, as I could not make head nor tail of it. Why would that lady be seeing someone right next to where she must have known her brother lived, yet without telling him? And Cas had definitely bought her an engagement present that time at the jeweller's. Eventually I determined to think no more on the matter, and to enjoy a rare Friday off.

Those plans were somewhat curtailed, however, when I heard a terrible scream from outside my door. I hurried out and looked over the stairwell, and saw Miss Hellingly leaning back against the banister, looking as white as a ghost. I immediately hurried down to her, and escorted her to my room – damn propriety! this was an emergency! - where I gave her a large brandy. I sat her by the fire, and eventually some colour returned to her cheeks. She looked at me, clearly still shocked.

“Doctor Winchester!” she gasped. “It was horrible!”

“What was?” I asked.

“That.... 'thing' in room three!” she gasped. “I was making my rounds just now...”

(Eavesdropping again, I translated).

“... and he opened the door to fetch in his paper. It was ghastly! His face was all wrapped up, like.... like... like one of those terrible Egyptian mummy things!”

I poured her another brandy, which she downed in two goes. Quite impressive, really.

“He could just be an injured soldier, from one of the wars”, I pointed out gently. “Doctors often bandage up faces to prevent wounds getting infected, you know.”

She looked at me suspiciously.

“Then why did that lady the other day say he was her brother?” she demanded.

“She may have been lying”, I suggested delicately. Apparently not delicately enough, for Miss Hellingly went pale again.

“I need Eric – Mr. Frodsham”, she said, much to my confusion.

“Who is Eric?” I asked, causing her to turn a red that nearly matched her dress.

“”My... er, gentleman friend”, she admitted reluctantly. “He is a doctor, like your good self.”

Well, at least that meant she was not seeing Cas. That made me very happy.

“You should send a servant round and ask him to call”, I suggested. “I think, in the circumstances, he would understand.”

She nodded vigorously, and I escorted her from the room. 

+~+~+

I liked to think by the time that, in our seven years of acquaintanceship and five years of co-habitation I had come to know Cas fairly well. Events at the start of that evening, however, made me reconsider that belief.

The man had arrived back from his sister's house, and he was clearly livid! What made it more impressive was that there was no shouting or yelling, just a focussed silence that, in many ways, was infinitely worse. He virtually threw himself into his fireside chair after dinner, clearly still seething. I wanted to ask about his visit, but was actually afraid to.

Not that he gave me much time, for when I tentatively asked him if he was all right, he gave his signature growl and was on me before I could even check if the door was shut behind him. He got out of his own clothes as impossibly quick as usual, and I had to try to restrain him from ripping off my remaining ones, he was so impatient! Then he was using those magic hands of me to get me hard, before hoisting himself up on me as if I was some sort of climbing-frame, and impaling himself on me in one, swift move. I let out a noise which should only have been heard at the gorilla cage in London Zoo, now having to bear his weight as well as my own, before he added to my problems by squeezing my cock repeatedly. I could not hold back, but came almost at once, as he gripped onto me like his life depended on it!

I was almost fearful that he was going to attempt a swift repeat, but he seemed happy to reach between us and finish himself off, his come forming a sticky layer between us. It was not really pleasant, and unusually he did a poor job of wiping us down before walking over to the window, still stark-naked.

“You might wish to get dressed”, he said airily. “My father has just arrived, and will be here in a few minutes.”

I gaped at him, and realized.

“You... you did that deliberately!” I protested. “You knew he was coming, and that he would know we just had sex!”

He shrugged his shoulders, and reached for a dressing-gown.

“I am sure you can think of ways to make me pay for it later”, he smirked.

I groaned. This was unfair! The only way I could make him really suffer was to withhold sex, which was impossible given my current state. It would have been easier to withhold breathing!

“I hate you!” I groused, going over to retrieve my own dressing-gown. “By the Gods, I smell like sex!”

“That's the idea!” chirped.

+~+~+

It was barely three minutes before Sir Charles was shown in by a clearly impressed Miss Hellingly (I fervently hoped that she would not embarrass herself by patrolling the corridor during his visit, though thankfully her gentleman friend had arrived at the same time I had returned, which might keep her otherwise engaged). I instinctively wanted to thank the nobleman for his help in my becoming a doctor, but the positively Arctic chill generated by the great detective made me hold back. Sir Charles sniffed the air, and I tried not to die of embarrassment.

“I should leave and let you talk”, I said, heading (escaping) towards my door.

“No!” Cas said, to my surprise. “Stay, Dean. What my dear father has to say concerns you as well.”

“I hardly think this is wise, son”, Sir Charles rumbled.

“You passed wise some time ago”, his son growled.

To my surprise, his father bowed his head.

“I deserved that”, he said.

“You did, sir”, his son said acidly. “I had never been ashamed to be a Novak until this happened.”

“Until what happened?” I asked, bewildered.

“Tell him”, Cas ordered.

Sir Charles sighed, and turned to me.

“You have been a good friend to my son, Doctor Winchester”, he said gravely. “Indeed, from the state you are both in, I would hazard to say you are..... very close to him.”

I do not think I could have gone any redder.

"Very close!" Cas grinned. "Could hardly be closer!"

No, apparently I could go redder.

"I see", the nobleman said heavily.

“Father!” Cas snapped. His father looked at him, but did not reprove him.

“My sons Gabriel and Balthazar became convinced, following your publication of Castiel's first case, that you had ulterior motives in your friendship towards him.”

I blinked.

“What?” I managed eventually. “He will tell you, I offered him half of all proceeds from the book. He declined.”

“It was not just the book”, Sir Charles muttered. “They thought that you were..... corrupting Castiel.”

“It would only have been corruption if I had been unwilling”, Cas said pointedly. “Believe me, Father, I have been willing. Very, very willing!”

His father winced. So did I.

“Have some understanding!” Sir Charles said, almost pleadingly. “Until you have children of your own, doctor, you cannot know what it is like to worry about them, no matter how old they are. Any perceived threat would make any decent parent move to counter it.”

“By setting up a spy in another room in the lodgings he shares with his lover?” Cas said bitterly. “I presume that I was right in assuming it was my trickster brother who came here to spy on us both?”

“Gabriel insisted on doing it himself”, Sir Charles said. 

I swallowed nervously. Cas had that knowing gleam in his eye that, quite frankly, terrified me.

“You owe Dean an apology”, he said firmly. “Yes, he and I have a relationship, and we are both currently very happy in it. That does not preclude one of us finding someone to marry one day, but as we are both sigmas, that is not likely.”

“You moved in with him”, his father pointed out. “And moved to stay with him. There is definitely an air of permanence about this.”

“I am a difficult person to live with for over ninety-nine per cent of the human race”, Cas sighed. “I know that. Dean, saint that he is, more than tolerates my ups and downs.”

A saint and a good-looking man, I preened, whilst trying not to snigger at the mention of ups and downs. My friend saw my reaction, and a small smile creased the corner of his mouth.

“Besides”, Cas went on, “Dean helps me with my cases, not just in publicizing them. He has a straightforwardness that keeps me grounded.”

I preened a little more. Sir Charles seemed shocked by his youngest son's vehemence. Finally he nodded.

“I understand”, he said. “And I am sorry I allowed this. But I so find it difficult to let go....”

“Father, I am twenty-seven years of age”, Cas said, sounding almost impatient. “It really is time you learnt to trust me.”

“I do trust you, son”, the nobleman said. “And I am proud of what you do. Well, the detecting thing.”

Cas nodded, and seemingly relaxed a little.

“Did you go and see Gabriel on the way up?” he asked.

“I knocked”, he said, “but he must have been asleep. You know the hours he keeps!”

Cas nodded, and smiled knowingly. I was considering asking him about it when the door to our rooms burst open, and a young man all but fell into our room. He had dirty blond hair and a long nose, but the most remarkable thing about him was the virulent red blotches all over his face. He looked at us in horror.

IV

“Father!” he blurted out.

Aha. This must be Gabriel Novak. He looked briefly (and guiltily, I noticed) at his brother, then hurried over to me. 

“Miss Hellingly says you are a doctor”, he said urgently. “Please, you have to take a look at me!”

“Sit over at the table”, I ordered, “and I will fetch my medical gloves so I can examine you safely. If you have something infectious, we do not wish to risk spreading it around.”

He followed my instructions, and I went to my room to fetch my gloves. On returning, I saw the nobleman looking anxiously at his stricken son. Cas, however, looked almost smug. Curious.

I carefully examined Gabriel Novak's face, where some of the marks were now turning an alarming shade of purple. I had a sudden feeling that I knew exactly what had caused his problems. I tentatively sniffed at one of the marks, and suppressed a smile when I recognized the smell. Straightening my face, I stood back and faced my patient.

“This is very serious”, I said firmly. “In all my years of medicine, it is one of the worst cases of Inritaris Fratris Maioris Syndrome that I have ever come across. There is no available treatment for this dreadful disease.”

The man's eyes widened in horror.

“Doctor!” he pleased. “Please!”

I noticed that Cas had turned away to the fire, presumably to hide his expression if his slightly shaking shoulders were anything to go by. Presumably Sir Charles had understood my Latin reference, because he too was looking faintly amused. At that timely moment, I remembered what else my friend had said about his brother, and decided to push the knife in further.

“However, a complete change of diet is usually effective in stopping this malady in its tracks”, I said. “You must avoid any sweet things, and particularly confectionery, for at least six months. Preferably a year.”

The man looked like I had struck him.

“No sweets?” he gasped.

“Not a single one”, I insisted. “Just one single lollipop could cause the current infection to spread to your whole body. And in this disease, the next area to be affected after the face is always the, um, male organs.”

I thought for a moment he was going to have a seizure. Fortunately for him, his sufferings were brought to an end when Cas finally let out a huge guffaw of laughter and collapsed into his chair.

“Oh, Dean, I do love you!” he chuckled. Inritaris Fratris Maioris? That was genius!”

“What's so funny?” Gabriel Novak demanded, pouting.

His father took pity on him.

“Gabriel, that particular Latin phrase translates loosely as 'irritating elder brothers'”, he explained. He looked at his youngest son and grinned. “Soap?” he asked.

Cas nodded. The nobleman turned back to his elder son.

“Castiel knew who you were”, he explained, “and he must have slipped into your room to replace your usual soap with a special abrasive one, which causes the skin to blister. My so-called friends used it on me once at school. Don't worry, son. It fades after twenty-four or so hours.”

“But it does leave purple marks for some days”, Cas said, smiling cheerfully. I was pleased to see him looking so happy. “Serves you right, brother.”

“I was only doing it for your welfare!” Gabriel Novak grumbled. “And now look at me!”

“I think everyone will be looking at you for a while”, his father remarked. He turned back to his youngest son. “I truly am sorry we did not trust your judgement. We will know better in future.”

Cas nodded. The nobleman took his still blushing elder son and left.

“Thank you for that” my friend smiled. “I thought you might tell him the truth straight off.”

“After the way he and your family treated you?” I asked. “No way. He deserved to suffer a little longer. Though that is the first time I have ever knowingly lied to a patient.”

We ordered some coffee, and talked happily on matters familial for the rest of the evening. I sat by the fire writing up my case notes, and Cas lay next to me, the lost cause that was his untidy hair nestling against my thigh. Maybe our relationship was mostly about sex, but we were young, healthy and had each other. In this world, that was probably as good as it got.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would again take us to the country, this time Somerset, where a poisoner was far from what he first seemed....


	8. Case 16: Crossroad Blues (1882)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Morgan the poisoner'

I

It would have been totally opportunistic of me to use Cas’ investigations away from London to explore England and take in all its many delights. However, when he told me that he had a case that would necessitate our travelling to the Somersetshire village of Winscombe, I thought immediately of the magnificent cathedral at nearby Wells, a town which served by trains on the same line which would take us there. However, I said nothing, even as we passed the cathedral city. I did not wish to be taking advantage of my friend’s innate good nature.

Though bearing in mind the way I had been woken that morning, he did not feel quite the same way, for which I was truly glad. Or would be, when I had recovered.

I glared at him across the railway carriage, as I tried to get myself comfortable in the first-class seat (I mentally shuddered to think of the bare boards still prevalent in some third-class compartments!). He smiled sweetly back at me, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Hah!

“What precisely is this case about?” I asked, hoping to distract my mind from constantly registering its disapproval at my methods of getting up in the mornings. Or at any other time.

He smirked again, but chose to answer my question.

“A Mrs. Black has written me a most curious letter”, he said, “which quite piqued my interest. She is the wife of the local vicar, and is concerned about a recent death in the village. Possibly a murder.”

I stared at him in confusion.

“Surely, then, she should have alerted the local constabulary?” I asked.

“That is one of the things that has piqued my interest”, he said. “She would tell me no facts of the case, safe to say that she would rather approach me then them for reasons that could not be communicated through the general post. Bearing in mind the single-mindedness with which the Post Office guards letters whilst in its possession, that is more than a little interesting.”

I could not but agree. Recently I had had to claim a letter of my own which had not been delivered for some reason, and the local post office staff had made me feel almost like a criminal. And it was my name on the damned letter!

“Our destination is the Crossroad Inn, a tavern halfway between Winscombe and the neighbouring village of Banwell”, Cas said. “I note from the maps that the rugby club, which is shared between the two villages, is directly opposite, so that may have something to do with matters. Oh, and she recommended that we purchase a local paper, so we shall have to get one from somewhere. I think our change station at Witham is too far away, so perhaps we could get one at Wells, then we could read it on the train going up the valley?”

Great, I groused to myself. I get to see my tourist trap for as long as it takes to buy a newspaper. Oh lucky me.

+~+~+

I was also somewhat depressed because our journey took place on January the twenty-third, which meant that the next day would be my birthday. To be precise, my thirtieth birthday. I would be thirty, and middle-aged.

Ugh!

I managed to obtain two local newspapers from the station vendor at Wells, where to my chagrin we waited some time before continuing up the valley. Still, it allowed us both to read out prospective journals and catch up with local happening in north Somerset. Unlike Cas, I found reading on the train always gave me a headache.

“I might suppose that the case we are called to investigate is the mysterious death of Mr. Patrick Arbuthnot”, Cas observed after a while. “It is the only matter of import that relates to our destination, and took place some two days ago. The local constabulary are, and I quote, ‘baffled’.”

“My newspaper is a little more informative”, I said. “The victim was sixty-seven, a businessman who was looking to invest in the area prior to retiring to Weston-super-Mare, which is nearby. He was poisoned at....”

I looked up at Cas in surprise.

“His home Field View Cottage, just along from the Crossroad Inn”, I finished. He smiled.

“Which is where the estimable Mrs. Black has arranged accommodation for us”, he said with a smile. “Well, things begin to fall into place. Some good Somersetshire air and a sharp case.”

I was pleased to see him looking so eager. He had suffered a cold last month that had teetered on the brink of developing into something nastier, and my ‘mother-hen tendencies’ had taken over, probably driving him round the bend, though he forbore with it without complaining. It was good to see him back to his normal, though the sharp pain every time the train hit a break in the rails was a reminder that a Cas on top form had its downsides as well.

+~+~+

Mrs. Black was waiting to meet us off the train at Winscombe, and to take us to the Vicarage for tea and a briefing on the case before a cab would take us to the Crossroad Inn, or the scene of the crime. She was a short, fussy lady with horn-rimmed glasses, and like all women of a certain age – married or not – was simpering at my friend before we were through the ticket barrier. Honestly, I couldn’t take him anywhere!

From the station it was but a short carriage ride to the vicarage, where Mrs. Black had tea served before she would enlighten us about the matter that had brought us here. I was impatient to learn of it, but of course Cas was as charming as ever. Once the servants had withdrawn, our hostess began.

“As you can see from the shelves over there”, she said “detective fiction is a weakness of mine, I greatly enjoyed your story about your case in Oxford, doctor, and it is because of that that I have requested your presence here.”

“You wish to know ‘whodunnit’?” I remarked.

She looked at me pointedly, and I felt like a naughty schoolboy.

“It is not that simple, doctor”, she said, clearly weighing her words carefully. “All the evidence points to one person, and that person certainly had motive, means and opportunity, yet something in me wonders if it is all a little too obvious. And as you must know, there is no actual proof, because otherwise Constable Primrose would have made an arrest by now.”

Cas sat back and smiled.

“Let us begin from the beginning”, he said, reaching for a sugared cake (how he could eat things like that and retain his figure was another bone of contention between us, whereas I gained weight by just being in the vicinity of such sugary monstrosities). “You are clearly a lady of intelligence, so I would ask that you kindly tell us exactly what happened in the order in which it happened.

She took a deep breath.

II

The victim, Patrick Arbuthnot, was really the most odious man”, she said, sounding almost bitter. “I know one should not speak ill of the dead, but… well, really! I always felt like I needed to wash my hands after being anywhere near him. He lived in the North, but rented a small cottage – where his body was found - just along from the Crossroad Inn. He stayed there for summer weekends mostly, and the only person he was with him was a manservant, a foreigner called Gio. I know for a fact that Gio disliked him; a few weeks ago the poor man had a bruise on him when he came down, and I am certain that That Evil Man gave it to him!”

I could hear the capitals.

“One month ago, there was a whole lot of fuss when old Benjamin Morgan, who had owned the rugby field opposite the inn, died in what the papers called ‘mysterious circumstances’. There was a lot of guff written about it by people who should have known better, but the honest truth, gentlemen, is that he took his own life, and he was driven to it by That Evil Man!”

I reflected that perhaps the late Mr. Arbuthnot was lucky it was not him being on trial, as the likes of Mrs. Black would have hanged him as soon as looked at him.

“Why?” Cas asked.

She looked surprised, but rallied.

“Mr. Arbuthnot wanted to buy the rugby club field and build houses on it”, she said. “That would have put the club – the Crossroad Blues; they have people from both villages in them – out of business. I suppose that Peg – Mrs. Brewster, the landlady of the inn - should have been pleased at all those potential new customers, but she was bitterly against the idea.”

How bitterly, I wondered.

“Old Ben was finding it hard to make ends meet, living in that great big house of his on the Cheddar road”, she went on. “His son Philip had died, but he had a single grandson, young Owen, who was devoted to him. He’s studying at Bristol, but came down as often as he could.”

“So,the day of the murder. It was the day the Blues played Congresbury, our local rivals. Oxford and Cambridge have nothing on the dislike that can be roused in a small valley community, I can tell you. And the place was buzzing; we had just learnt that Old Ben had sold the field to Mr. Arbuthnot only days before he died.”

“I would ask you to please pause there”, Cas said politely. “It seems that matters surrounding the first death are pertinent to the second one. Were there any suspicious circumstances about Mr. Morgan's death?”

She shook her head.

“Doctor Stephens is a fool, but he’s an honest fool”, she said, sounding almost regretful. “Everyone knew poor Ben had a weak heart, and personally I think all the pressure put on him by That Evil Man was just too much for him.”

“I suppose there was talk in the village, though”, I put in.

She nodded.

“There are more ways of killing someone than sticking a knife into them”, she said.

“I presume young Mr. Morgan is studying to be a doctor?” Cas asked.

She looked at him in surprise.

“Yes”, she said. “He is specializing in the research of certain poisons. How did you know?”

“Because all the indications are that he is the one coming under suspicion”, Cas explained, “and poison, to which he would of course have access, is one of the most difficult weapons to either prove or disprove. Has an autopsy been scheduled for the late Mr. Arbuthnot?”

“Doctor Stephens carried it out this morning”, she said. “Gio told us that he had no relatives, and all his money went to his business colleague, who is abroad somewhere or other. The doctor said that there was no sign of any poison in the body.”

I could see that Cas was as surprised as I was. Of course post mortem examinations were to be done as soon as possible, but within a day seemed rather hasty. Cas thought for a moment, then nodded.

“I shall need to make several inquiries”, he said, “and also contact a source I have back in London. Investigating two deaths will make this much harder. Did the late Mr. Morgan keep much in the way of serving-staff?”

“Not after he moved to the cottage”, she said. “A single servant, that was all. Andrews is as honest as the day is long; he has gone to Wells to live with his sister, as the police wanted to lock up the cottage for some reason.”

Cas turned to me.

“Doctor, it is imperative that we have this servant’s testimony”, he said firmly. “Tomorrow I want you to go to Wells and find him, and get him to tell you everything he knows. I shall do what I can here, and await your return at the inn.”

I nodded, secretly excited at the prospect of a day in the cathedral city.

+~+~+

The Crossroad Inn looked decidedly weather-worn, although bearing in mind its position on an exposed hilltop between the villages of Winscombe and Banwell, it was hardly surprising. I noticed that the rugby pitch opposite had a definite slope to it, and wondered what it would be like to play on.

Unbidden, an image of Cas in a rugby kit wandered into my mind and promptly made itself far too comfortable. I fell behind my friend slightly as I tried to adjust myself, and I was sure I could detect a smirk even from behind.

Our hostess, Mrs. Brewster, was kind enough to admit us through the back door, so we could avoid the inevitable gawping that strangers in a village are always subject to. Of course we had two single rooms, but blessedly they were joined by a connecting door, and even better, we were somewhat isolated at the back of the place.

Cas wanted to explore the late Mr. Arbuthnot’s cottage, and had already collected the key from the local police station on our way up. I however felt a little tired from the day’s events thus far, especially as, some two days ago, I had suffered a slight sprain in my ankle at Cramer Street (apparently my body was not quite as flexible as my friend’s, I had belatedly discovered), so Cas suggested I should stay at the inn and rest.

+~+~+

It was dark and I was reading on my bed when Cas returned. Hearing his door close, I went and knocked on the connecting door.

“Enter!” he called out.

I walked in, to find that he was behind the screen, presumably changing into his night-clothes. I sat on his bed and waited for him.

“Did you find anything of interest at Mr. Arbuthnot's cottage?” I asked.

“It is what I did not find that was interesting”, he said, as I fought the urge to slip behind the screen and join him. I blinked in surprise.

“What did you not find, then?” I asked.

“Mess.”

“What?” I was confused.

“Most of the rooms had the standard sort of mess that any single male has as part of his daily life”, he said. “Books left out, papers, that sort of thing. But the front room, where the body was found, had been cleaned. I find it intriguing that whoever cleans for him apparently only does one room.”

I was still mulling over that when he came out from behind the screen. I looked up at him – and froze. He was wearing a rugby kit. A blue top and socks to match, and sexy long, white shorts. I could not stop myself letting out a moan of desire. He smirked.

III

“What do you think, Dean?” he asked nonchalantly. “Do you think you could 'tackle' me wearing this in the future?”

I had got hard so fast it was actually painful, and I shifted on the bed, glad that I was wearing just my dressing-gown. In the semi-darkness of the room his eyes glittered dangerously. And without his saying anything, I stood, threw off my gown, lay back on the bed and raised my knees in anticipation. I was such a slut where Cas was concerned, but when he looked like this, I was way past caring.

He chuckled and sauntered forward, taking far too long to cross the room before slowly positioning himself between my raised legs. I braced for his finger, but instead he raised me even further, and I got the shock of my life when not only his finger but his tongue began to press at my entrance. I let out a strangled moan.

“Careful, Dean”, he warned. “Remember, we are not that far from other rooms. We don't want to draw attention to our little game, do we now?”

I was beyond words, devoting what little remained of my brain functions to trying to keep silent. I panted heavily as he quickly worked me open, desperately wanting him yet knowing that, for someone as well-hung as Cas, I would need a lot of preparation. It was the most exquisite torture, and I was the luckiest alpha alive to be enduring it.

Finally he deemed me ready, and I felt him pushing slowly home. It seemed like another age before he was finally done, leaning forward to rub the rough fabric of the rugby shirt against my chest and waiting for me to get used to the intrusion. 

“Move!” I hissed impatiently.

“As you wish”, he said simply. He suddenly shifted against me, and the new angle meant that he caught my prostate totally unprepared. I did not even have time to cry out but came violently, my cock actually hurting with the suddenness of it.

“Dean?” he said, clearly concerned at the tears in my eyes.

“You are magnificent”, I managed, quietly proud of myself for managing those things called words, and one of them a long one. “Mine!”

He grinned, and continued to pound my prostate, mercifully easing back so as not to rub the rough shirt against my now sensitive cock. Which, incredibly, was rising to attention again. Not bad for someone who had just hit....

“Happy birthday, Dean”, he whispered. “Even if you are now thirty!”

I gave him a dirty look. Then again, if this was the sort of present I got for a major birthday, I might actually start looking forward to being forty!

I wondered if thirty-five would count as a major birthday as well. Maybe even thirty-one?

+~+~+

I awoke to a feeling of pleasurable exhaustion the following morning, only marred slightly by the fact that I was alone in my bed. Well, except for a rough blue rugby shirt. I would have been a complete omega had I spent the next half-hour cuddling it in bed, of course.

An excellent breakfast (when I eventually came down) was followed by the arrival at the inn of a sharp-eyed young alpha policeman who introduced himself as Constable Primrose. I would not go so far as to say he resented our presence, but he was definitely wary for some reason, although he had brought his notebook and was clearly prepared to share what he knew of the case with us. Country folk.

“Mrs. Black said she wanted to bring you in”, he said. “It all seems very cut and dried to me, but perhaps there’s something you can see that I’m missing.”

“That is always a possibility”, Cas said. “Did Doctor Stephens have any idea what caused Mr. Arbuthnot’s death?”

“All he would say was that it was a heart-attack”, he said, “and it could have been brought on by any number of things. The man was not in a good physical condition, although he had his own doctor back up North. He was unpopular, but we don’t usually kill people we dislike down here in Somersetshire.”

“Mr. Arbuthnot was alive and well at a few minutes past six on the day of his death”, the policeman continued. “The rugby match had finished at just before five, and naturally most of those involved adjourned here immediately afterwards. He had been in Weston for the day, and returned to the station by the train that arrived from Yatton at a quarter to six. He took a cab from there to his cottage, and Meyrick – the cab-driver – remembers hearing the church clock strike as they were passing the inn.”

“What about his manservant?” Cas asked. The constable shook his head. 

“Day off”, he said looking distinctly depressed at the fact. “He took the train to Cheddar, and spent the day at the library there. His train back was cancelled, and both the librarian and the Cheddar station-master confirm that he took the half-past six train back, arriving at Winscombe just before a quarter to seven. I presume he must have been anxious, as he was supposed to have the house ready for his master’s return, Meyrick was back at the station by then, and offered him a free ride home.”

“That was good of him”, I said, surprised. I knew how foreigners often found it hard to be accepted in an insular village such as this. The constable nodded.

“Meyrick drove him home, arriving at about five to seven”, Constable Primrose said. “It was immediately clear that something was afoot, as the front door was wide open. The two of them approached cautiously, and quickly found Mr. Arbuthnot dead in the front room.”

“And people suspect young Mr. Morgan”, I observed.

“Indeed”, the constable said heavily. “Most regrettably he went to the cottage at half-past six to argue for the return of the field. He says that harsh words were exchanged but no blows, and Doctor Stephens could not find any evidence of physical assault on the victim, so he may be telling the truth there. And there is one other odd thing, though it may be nothing.”

“What is that?” Cas asked.

“Meyrick is not sure, but he thinks that when he dropped the victim off at the cottage, there was someone at one of the windows inside”, he said.

“A lady”, Cas said at once. The policeman looked at him in surprise.

“What makes you think that?” he demanded.

“There was a pink garter under the bed in the main bedroom”, Cas said.

“You looked under his bed?” the policeman asked. “Why?”

“Because that was where I expected to find it”, Cas smiled. “Now, constable, what have you not told us? I presume it concerns Mr. Owen Morgan?”

The policeman went bright red.

“Two things, sir”, he admitted. “First, when they were checking the body, Meyrick saw a poison bottle that had rolled under one of the chairs.”

“Rather careless of our murderer”, Cas observed. “And the second thing?”

“Mr. Morgan had claimed that he went to spend the night with a friend in Congresbury”, he said. “He took his horse rather than the train, but because his friend only has a small stables, he lodged the horse at the George Inn overnight. The innkeeper sent me a message today saying he will swear on the Bible that the man handed the horse over at six-thirty; of course the friend had said he reached the house at a quarter to seven, but you know what friends are. However, Mr. Selwyn is a good sound man. I do not see why he would lie.”

“Indeed”, Cas said with one of his knowing smiles. “This has really been a most interesting case, but I expect it to come to a conclusion quite shortly. Indeed, probably within the next sixty seconds.”

IV

The policeman looked at him in amazement, but sure enough, just seconds later the landlady was approaching, a nervous-looking woman in a plain grey dress lurking behind her and clearly very much wishing not to be seen. Constable Primrose looked at her dourly.

“Mabel Torrin”, he said heavily. “What brings you here?”

The woman shuffled forward, every inch of her shaking figure proclaiming her wish to be anywhere but here.

“Allow me”, Cas said smoothly. “This is the person who wishes to claim responsibility, at least indirectly, for the passing of the late and largely unlamented Mr. Patrick Arbuthnot.”

The woman failed to hold back a loud sniff. The policeman’s brow furrowed.

“I don’t understand”, he said.

Cas smiled.

“Putting it as delicately as possible”, he said, “I believe Mr. Arbuthnot and Miss Torrin here were, as you may say, about to perform sexual congress when the strain proved too much for the man involved. La morte d’amour is thought by many to be just a fairy tale, but figures show it does happen, and more often than most would like to think.”

Another sniff. The constable looked at the woman, who suddenly burst into speech.

“He just fell over!” she burst out. “I thought he was kidding again, but I went over to him, and he was…. gone! Dead as a door-nail!”

Mrs. Brewster kindly came up and led her away, leaving a stunned policeman sat opposite us.

“I think this case is closed”, Cas said firmly. “The doctor and I will leave this morning, and allow your tranquil little village to get back to its deserved peace and quiet.”

I could not but agree.

+~+~+

We were ensconced on the train back down the valley before I remembered. This would mean that my day-trip to Wells would also be cancelled. Damnation!

“So the shady lady done it!” I said wryly, trying to distract myself from my loss.

To my surprise, Cas chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh Dean”, he said with a smile. “How you underestimate these so-called simple country folk. Mr. Arbuthnot was killed by the grandson of the man he swindled the rugby-field out of, young Mr. Owen Morgan.”

I stared in astonishment.

“But the shady lady!” I objected. He chuckled again.

“This is how it all really happened”, he said. “There were several people in on the ramp; the killer Mr. Morgan, Constable Primrose, Miss Torrin, Meyrick, Gio, Mr. Selwyn and Mr. Morgan’s friend in Congresbury, quite probably Mrs. Brewster, and of course Mrs. Black.”

“But…. but she was the one who brought you onto the case!”

He smiled.

“Any suspicious death was bound to attract the attentions of the local newspapers”, he explained. “What better way to lance that boil by bringing in a consulting detective, who would be there when the ‘truth’ – in this case, the fabricated story that was destined to come out when the time was right – finally emerged.”

I stared at him in shock.

“At just after six, Meyrick drives Mr. Arbuthnot home”, he said. “The manservant Gio, who we know dislikes his master and with good reason, had probably arranged to ‘miss his train home’, though it was in fact cancelled anyway, so it would be nearly an hour before he 'discovered' the dead body. Meanwhile there is indeed someone waiting in the house for the victim. Not Miss Torrin, but young Mr. Morgan.”

“I would wager that chloroform was the method of silencing the victim, prior to his being force-fed poison”, Cas said, as if he were not calmly reciting an act of murder. “Knowing some little of the character of young Mr. Morgan, I am sure he would wish to make sure that the man who effectively drove his grandfather to death knew of the reasons for his own demise.”

I think my mouth had fallen open at this point.

“In a closed community such as this, everyone pulled together”, Cas went on, as he quietly re-arranged my world order. “Constable Primrose was of course in on it, as was the local doctor, who found no evidence of poison in the body during his very hasty post mortem. The open door and poison bottle found near the body were to look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate young Morgan, who would then be cleared by both the evidence from Congresbury and the revelation of the real 'culprit', Miss Torrin. The garter was of course hers, and doubtless had we persisted she would have tearfully admitted to seeing Mr. Arbuthnot previously, which Gio, I am sure, would have confirmed.”

“His own servant”, I muttered.

“That the man could lose the loyalty of the one person who might have protected him speaks volumes about his character”, Cas said. “And my investigations, such as they were, did show that he did indeed swindle old Mr. Morgan out of that field. Fortunately it is easily proven, especially as there are no relatives to contest his title. Ah, we are here!”

I looked up in surprise. I may have been in shock, but I was sure the journey back to the junction at Witham had been much longer on the way down. I scrambled inelegantly out of the carriage after my friend, and caught sight of the station name-board.

‘Wells (Great Western)’. I stared at him in shock.

“I know how much you wanted to visit the cathedral here”, he said with a smile, “so I have booked tickets back on the evening train. We have over six hours, enough time to explore both cathedral and town.”

I would like to say that I did not cry at his perspicacity, but it would be a lie.

+~+~+

Cas kept the rugby kit, by the way.

+~+~+

Next, a case involving minutes and seconds but no time, and I have a moment of revelation....


	9. Case 17: Of Grave Importance (1882)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Cardboard Box'.

I

“You are developing quite a writing style, Dean.”

I looked up in surprise. It was the late summer of eighteen hundred and eighty-two, and the final installment of 'Rock And A Hard Place' had just been published in the Strand magazine. The reception of my latest offering had been even more positive than that for 'Pilot', and they had requested a further story from me, even going so far as to say I could supply it as and when I was ready. I had tentatively ventured to Cas that I might relate the events of our venture into Essex ('A Very Supernatural Christmas'), and he had agreed, though subject of course to his viewing the finished writings before they were sent off.

“How so?” I asked.

“The way you tease your poor readers, mentioning other cases were have undertaken together without going into details. In truth, it is a literary Dance of the Seven Veils!”

That, of course, what where my mind, always quick to latch onto things of a horizontal nature, disobligingly pictured Cas doing that dance. Even the thought of such a thing set my pulse racing, and I flinched in my seat, covertly adjusting myself. Ever since his family's attempts to spy on him he had become notably more needy, never seeming happy unless he was touching me when we were together in the house, even if he was just leaning against me on the couch. And I had noticed that it had become the norm for him to remain with me after coupling, clinging to me like the human octopus he sometimes was.

“Thank you”, I said. “Writing is hard, let alone finding the time to fit it all in.”

Cas coughed, and I cringed. That always presaged some remark that he knew was going to make me uncomfortable.

“You will probably say no”, he began slowly, “but my father would really like to apologize for the insinuations he made against your character.”

I forbore from pointing out that, in thinking I could not keep my hands off of his youngest son, Sir Charles had been quite right. His only mistake was thinking that his son was a victim in some way. He could not have been further from the truth!

“He spied on you”, I pointed out. “That was worse.

“One must expect some things from family”, he said dismissively. “But he would like that apology to take the form of paying for someone to do your work for a month, so you can take a paid holiday.”

I was surprised at the gesture, and I could see from the wary look on my friend's face that he fully expected me to refuse. I could see why; I was a proud man, and I knew (although he never offered) that if I ever faced any severe financial difficulties, Cas would insist on helping me out. And his father had also done a lot for me already, especially after my parents' deaths. But I was not going to turn down four weeks of holiday, principles be damned!

“Why not?” I said, to his evident surprise. “Who knows – these stories may end up making you so famous that I don't need to work any more!”

We both laughed, blissfully unaware at the time neither of how true those words would turn out to be, nor of the suffering that our relationship – whatever it was - would put me through before I reached it.

+~+~+

In all honesty, I blame Cas' tailors. It was totally their fault.

My weeks off were spent idling around the house, although I did go out a few times to make some tentative inquiries about new accommodation. We both knew that the Cramer Street house would be sold when Miss Hellingly emigrated with her sister the following year, so it paid to plan ahead. 

Cas had to spend a night at his parents' house for some reason – I seem to recall that his mother commanded it, though I do not recall why – so I spent a cold night alone. I was grateful that we had arranged to meet the following morning in the Gardens, after he had collected some clothes he had ordered a short while back. 

Unfortunately the summer weather let me down, and it was raining heavily when I set off, although at least that meant I had the Gardens almost completely to myself. There was not even anyone using the southern path as a cut-through between Dorset Street and Moxon Street, as I headed to the bandstand where we had arranged to meet. I only had to wait a few minutes before a very wet Cas came hurrying through the rain, that terrible long-coat of his doing its usual poor job of keeping off the wet. I wondered at that coat; all Cas' other clothes were of the best quality, but that one thing looked like it had seen better days, if not better decades.

Cas' gymnasium was, fortunately, situated opposite one corner of the Gardens, but even so we were both drenched by the time we reached its shelter. Like all good establishments, we were immediately offered plush towels and a room to change out of our wet clothes, for which I was eternally grateful, I had never felt so....

Ye Gods, what was Cas wearing?

I stared in astonishment. Having rid himself of that ridiculous coat, I could see that Cas was wearing what looked like a new pair of trousers. Very close-fitting trousers, that hugged his already perfect backside perfectly. I let out a strangled moan of pure want, and may or may not have drooled. A lot.

Cas looked over his shoulder at my sudden noise, and grinned. Then the blue-eyed bastard began to slowly rub himself down, gently shaking his backside right in front of me, whilst my eyes followed it as if they were glued to it. I almost didn't notice that he had removed his shirt – I said almost! - until I realized that he was looking at me pointedly.

Oh yes. I was still standing there dripping.

I quickly rubbed myself down and almost wrenched off my still-damp clothes, ignoring the blue dressing-gowns that the gymnasium had given us. When I was finally naked, I looked up at him again, to find he was still wearing those impossible tight trousers. I could not stop a second moan, and he grinned evilly – then painfully slowly, slid down his new purchase.

He was wearing nothing underneath! I was going to die!

Then , to my absolute horror, he reached for the dressing-gown and pulled it on, slipping his feet into the sandals that had also been provided.

“Come on, Dean”, he said a little impatiently. “Breakfast awaits, and I want to get really stuffed!”

He sauntered from the room, whilst I tried not to have a coronary. He was trying to kill me!

+~+~+

Yes, I did make him pay for that later. Although I was the one who ended up getting stuffed!

II

I had come round to the opinion that Cas was not overly fond of the Metropolitan Police Service. Although he held our friend Sergeant Henriksen in high esteem (higher than was warranted, in my opinion; the man's greatest talent seemed to be getting my friend to do his work for him so he could take the credit!), Cas viewed most of the rest of the capital's constabulary with toleration bordering on disdain. So I was surprised to return home one day and find in attendance a constable I had not seen before, and judging from the relaxed body language, someone Cas did actually hold some regard for. A beta, by the looks of him.

“This is Constable Franklin Devereux, from the Baker Street station”, he explained. “He has been involved in an interesting case today, and on his way home he thought he would bring it to my attention.”

I was surprised, not least because I could not imagine the constable's superiors being happy about his disclosing information to us. I often suspected that Sergeant Henriksen's bosses only tolerated it because of that policeman's high success rate, which they possibly guessed was due in part to Cas' help. My friend saw my confusion, and smiled.

“The story will be all over the evening papers in a few hours”, he explained, preëmpting my concerns, “so there is no matter of secrecy. The constable was kind enough to defray telling me the events of today until your return, so if you would make yourself comfortable, he can begin.”

+~+~+

Constable Devereux was, I thought to myself, quite old to be merely a junior officer of the law.

“The constable worked in a bank until three years ago”, Cas said, again showing the uncanny (and somewhat irritating) ability to read my mind. 

“And it is that bank that has brought me here today”, our visitor explained, taking the tea Cas handed to him. “Thank you, sir. I used to work in Pettigrew's, a small, private and somewhat exclusive bank in Duncannon Street, not far from Trafalgar Square.”

“Very exclusive”, Cas muttered. “They have some of the richest people in London as their clients.”

“Indeed”, the constable sighed. “It was my time there that resulted in me being drafted today, although unfortunately to little avail.”

“Drafted?” I inquired.

The constable leaned forward.

“The bank had recently gained a number of new clients, and as such, decided to extend its safe-room”, he said. “It was, of course, a time of great anxiety for the bank owners. Mainly to alleviate customer concerns, they asked to hire a policeman for the duration of the work. Since I once worked there, my name was advanced, and I was posted there during opening hours. There are also two of the bank's own employees who act as guards, but they do not wear any official uniform, so the bank thought a uniformed presence would reassure their customers.””

(I privately disapproved of our capital's constabulary whoring itself out in this way, but I supposed it kept down the local taxes that paid for them.)

“And outside of those hours?” Cas asked.

“Two watchmen patrol the area, with a guard-dog”, the constable answered. “They always arrive some time before the last customers depart, so word had gotten round that every care is being taken. The bank always puts its customers first.”

“That seems comprehensive enough”, I said.

“So to the events of last night”, the constable continued (I was quietly impressed that he was able to recite what had happened from memory, unlike Henriksen). “The bank closed at five o'clock in the afternoon, and I left at twenty past. The two watchmen, Darby and Woodson, were of course already there, having arrived fifteen minutes before closing; they live near to each other, and catch a 'bus in. At approximately seven o'clock they heard a huge explosion, and hurried down to the safe-room. I should explain at this point that, even with their keys, there is a complex security system that renders it impossible to access the room in under three minutes, so it was at least four after the explosion when they finally entered. They found a hole had been cut through the wall connecting to the basement next door, and several safe-boxes had been forced open.”

“Is there a list of what was taken?” Cas asked.

To my surprise, the constable put his head in his hands.

“That's the damnable thing!” he said. “They knew exactly what they were after. Lady Meryton's diamonds, worth at least a quarter of a million pounds!”

I gasped, for the Meryton Diamonds were amongst the most famous jewels in the country. As well as some loose gems, the main part was a huge double necklace which the beautiful Lady Meryton wore to all social occasions. The loss would be devastating for her, let alone what it would do to the bank.”

“And there is no clue as to who took them?” I asked.

“Oh, we have the man already!”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Then why are you here, constable?” Cas asked.

“Because in the time it took us to track Mr. Brandon Bullen down, he got rid of the diamonds, and we have no idea where he put them”, the constable groaned. “And the evidence we do have against him is paper-thin. We can hold him for a week before charging him, but if we have to let him go, we cannot watch him twenty-four hours a day on the off-chance he leads us to them.”

Cas thought for a moment.

“Assuming he goes to jail, is there anyone outside he would trust with the location of the gems?” he asked.

“He has two sons”, the constable said. “The eldest, Philip, is an alpha, but the two do not get on; I believe the son once tried to swindle his father out of the proceeds of one of his robberies. Also, he is up in Scotland at the moment, a guest of the Kincardineshire Constabulary. There is however a younger son, an omega called Paul, who lives over in Stepney. I asked for someone to go and check him out. He is away visiting a friend in Essex, but is due back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Did the local constable check his house at all?”

“I do not think so”, Devereux said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because”, Cas said, “it is entirely possible that he may have sent his younger son directions.”

The constable groaned. 

“Why did I not think of that?” he asked.

“I suggest you get someone to call round there first thing tomorrow”, Cas said, “or better still, do it yourself. If you could bring any findings to us, perhaps I might be able to help you further.”

III

Fortunately the next day was a Sunday, so I was home when Constable Devereux arrived. He came bearing a large, wrapped package.

“This was attempted to be delivered to the son yesterday evening”, he said. “The postman took it back to the office. I hate the Post Office; getting a parcel off of those people is harder than breaking into the damn Tower!”

He unwrapped the parcel, and to my surprise Cas gestured for me to look at it first. It was an ordinary-looking cardboard box, folded but not sealed shut. And there was writing on the sides.”

“'Fifty-one and zero'”, I read on the first side, turning it round. “What? 'Thirty minutes and thirty-two seconds'.”

I looked up at Cas in confusion, but he just smiled knowingly at me.

“'Seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds'”, I read from the third side. “And to finish....”

“The letter 'N', and either an 'E' or a 'W'”, Cas said. “Most probably a 'W'.”

He was looking away from me as he spoke. I stared at him in confoundment.

“How could you know that?” I asked.

“Was there anything inside the box?” Cas asked.

The constable grinned.

“Oh yes”, he said. “A sealed box of iced biscuits, and a thank-you letter.”

“Do you have the letter?” Cas asked.

The constable nodded, and handed it to him. He read it quickly, then passed it onto me:

'Dear Bully,

Thanks for everything you did; you know how much I hate dealing with hospitals. Mrs. Whitbury-Smith is fine now, and should be out in a week. Her sister May baked these as a thank-you.

I hope it all worked out well for you in Essex.

Ben'.

“Was there anything odd about the biscuits?” I asked, grasping for something in this case.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as the tests we've done so far”, the constable said. “There are two Whitbury-Smiths living in London as far as we know, but one is a single beta and the other a spinster of over sixty. No Mrs.”

“How many did you eat?” Cas inquired archly. Though judging from the constable's red face, not incorrectly.

“Some”, he muttered.

“Do you know what time the recipient of these items is due back?” Cas asked, seemingly taking pity on our visitor.

“His neighbour said he always returns off the four-thirty train, and walks from the station”, the constable said. “He gets home just before five.”

“It is imperative that these be waiting for him, and that he be aware that his father is being held”, Cas said firmly. “Devereux, you said that Duncannon Street is just off the Square?”

“Yes, sir?”

“And Bullen was being followed by the time he reached his home. Where is that, by the way?”

“Pudding Lane, sir. We got him coming up to his house.”

“So there were no sightings of him until then?”

The constable looked at him curiously.

“What are you driving at, sir?” he asked.

“Is Bullen Junior a smart man?” Cas asked, ignoring the question.

“He goes to college, sir.”

“Does he have a gun?”

“Sir?” The constable looked positively alarmed at the question.

“Does he have a gun?” Cas repeated patiently.

“I believe he does, sir.”

“Then I am afraid we will need as many armed officers as your station can stretch to, although God willing, it will only be for one night.”

“I don't follow....”

“You do wish to re-acquire the Meryton diamonds?” Cas asked archly.

“Sir!”

My friend sighed, and reached for a piece of paper, upon which he scrawled a few lines of writing. I only hoped the constable would be able to read it; Cas' chicken scrawl made all those jokes about the average doctor's handwriting superfluous.

“I believe the place closes at nine”, Cas said. “I expect the attempt to be made soon after.”

“But surely you would want to be there?” the detective asked.

Cas smiled.

“This is very much your call, Devereux”, he said gently. “A successful case here could earn you that promotion. I am sure that even if he adds this to his canon, the good doctor will be able to phrase it in such a way as to make it look as if we merely guided you in your hunt.”

“Of course I would”, I put in.

“The doctor and I will be waiting within sight of the place anyway”, Cas said airily. “Just in case.”

Within sight of where, I wondered, but the constable was taking his leave, presumably to hurry off and put Cas' plans into action.

+~+~+

One of the great joys of living in Cramer Street was that Miss Hellingly had had a shower added to the bathroom in some of her rooms, including ours. Most evenings I enjoyed a long hot soak in the bathtub, but since we were going out this evening, I decided a shower would be more invigorating. The water pressure in the unit was quite good, although the heater was not very efficient, so the hot water only lasted about five or six minutes before it turned cold. I knew Cas liked cold showers, which I attributed to his being a walking heater much of the year, so I was surprised when he mentioned that he too would like a shower before we ventured out. I would have pouted, but it never worked on him, so I saved myself the energy.

“You could always join me”, he muttered, as he walked from his bedroom to the bathroom. 

And I was hard within seconds! He stood there at the door, looking at me inquiringly, and I gulped as I tried to both run to my room and start undressing, almost falling over the coffee-table in my haste. I was out in barely a minute, and he was still stood there, looking almost predatory, before he disappeared inside the bathroom. I may or may not have sprinted after him.

The shower was a wall-fixed one, which meant the user had to stand in the tub and pull the curtain around the bath to keep the rest of the room dry. Cas already had the shower running when I caught up with him, and despite the fact it was only slowly warming up, he was still stood under it, his broad back to me, his perfect backside just waiting. Mercifully he had set the water to hot, so I was in no danger of freezing certain valued parts of my anatomy off!

I quickly soaped up his hair and mine, and rinsed us both off, before I began on his body, running my soapy hands all over his back before gently turning him round to face me. I lathered his chest before pulling us together, thus economically lathering my own in the process (the fact our cocks were rubbing almost painfully against each other was just a happy bonus!). Then he used his strength to manoeuvre me around until I was facing the spray, and despite being plastered all over me somehow managed to soap my back. Then I felt his fingers at my entrance, and sighed happily. 

He worked quickly, for obvious reasons, and was inside me in less than a minute. The sensation of warm water to the front was wonderful, but add in the scent and the closeness of the man I loved.....

Oh.

Of course, my moment of realization was, perhaps mercifully, cut short by the heater deciding it had done enough, and the warm spray suddenly turning Arctic. I gasped, a mixture of the shock of revelation and the sudden cold, but Cas – still impaled inside me, and now rubbing my cock with one hand – held me in place, and I could not move. Despite the fact that parts of my brain were pointing out that I was bloody freezing, and might I kindly be so inclined as to bloody well do something about it, I could not move. Cas was taking me full-speed towards orgasm, and he and I both came almost simultaneously, I into the increasingly cold waters around my feet. Thankfully, he quickly pulled out and guided me out of the shower, my legs having turned to jelly.

“”That was fun”, he said lightly. “I think we are both ready for this evening's adventures, eh, doctor?”

I silently prayed that he would attribute my stunned silence to shock at the cold water, rather than to its real cause, the revelation that had been so chillingly cut short. Except that it now sat in the front of my brain, refusing to go away, and I knew something had changed. I tried to rally.

“Fun, but freezing!” I said. “Next time, you can be in front!”

He left me to change in his room, and I sank onto the side of the bath. The moment of revelation could hardly have been less fitting, but now I knew. I loved Cas truly, madly, deeply. It was not just sex, it was not just friendship. I, an alpha, actually loved another alpha.

Oh shit!

IV

We could hear Big Ben striking a quarter past nine down Whitehall, as we stood behind a pillar at the north-eastern corner of Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery was long closed down, and the little church of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, named from a time when this area was actually outside the city, had just been locked up for the night. I tried not to stand too close to the human heater in front of me, but knew I was failing when he nestled back against me.

“I still have no idea why we are here”, I complained, “except we are not that far from where the robbery took place.”

Cas chuckled.

“Perhaps I am being a little unfair”, he admitted. “I will extend a clue to you. The note I received from the constable an hour ago confirmed what I had thought, namely that young Bullen is only attending college part-time whilst working at the offices of the Ordnance Survey.”

“The government map-makers”, I said. “How does that help me figure it out?”

“Remember what was written on the outside of the cardboard box?” Cas asked. “Perhaps it is an unfair question”, he quickly went on, “because the information was split in such a way that only someone like the man who will shortly be visiting the church over there would know.”

“Or a smart consulting detective”, I said dryly.

“That is true”, he said immodestly. I resisted the urge to swat at him.

“How do you know he will be going there?” I asked.

“Because if you re-arrange the figures on the box, you get two sets of Cartesian co-ordinates”, Cas explained. “Fifty-one degrees, thirty minutes and thirty-two seconds north, and zero degrees, seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds west.”

I stared at him, stunned.

“And you just knew those were the co-ordinates of the church?” I asked at last.

“Of course not”, he said, “but from the latitude, I knew it had to be somewhere in central London, if not the exact centre. Also, it is a common fact that one angular minute is approximately half a mile of distance, which meant the place had to be about three and a half miles west of Greenwich. It is probable that Bullen Senior took this route home, planning to lose any pursuit in the crowds. He hid the diamonds in the churchyard, thinking to either retrieve them later, or for his son to do it for him if he got caught.”

“Ah”, I pointed out, “but the churchyard is still large. How would the boy know where to look?”

“Because of the contents of the box”, Cas said calmly.

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle, almost immediately followed by three policemen emerging out of the side-gate dragging a very reluctant fourth man with them. A fifth man followed them, but turned and came across to us. It was Constable Devereux.

“You were right, Mr. Novak sir!” he smiled. “Exactly where you said they'd be. We put some fakes in there earlier, and he went straight to the grave to get them. Luckily he didn't bring his gun.”

“Fortunate for him”, Cas smiled.

“So how did you know where he hid the diamonds?” I pressed. “Was it something in the letter?”

“Yes”, my friend said. “The only unusual thing in that letter was the name, Whitbury-Smith. Mr. Bullen Senior chose that gravestone because the name was, he hoped, unique, then communicated it to his son who, correctly deciphering the messages on and inside the box, came to retrieve his father's ill-gotten gains.”

“Lady Meryton is going to be so pleased!” Devereux grinned. He looked at Cas uncertainly. “Are you sure you do not wish to get the credit....?”

“I am sure”, Cas said firmly. “I expect you have a lot of paperwork to complete at the station, now that both Bullens will be being charged. Come, Dean. Let us find a cab to take us to the safety of our humble abode.”

We bade farewell to the constable, and left Nelson to his silent watch.

+~+~+

Our next adventure together would bring a certain famous address in Baker Street into our lives, and show, not for the last time, that people with power cannot be trusted....


	10. Case 18: Yellow Fever (1883)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Yellow Face'.

Author's Note: this case is one of those were further elucidation is possible due to the passage of time, and with the permission of those alive who feature in this story. Safe to say that the difference between one disease and another is the difference between relative calm and a full-scale panic in the greatest city on Earth. And that governments, of any hue or nationality, are never, ever to be trusted.

+~+~+

I

Our New Year celebrations, such as they were for eighteen hundred and eighty-three, were overshadowed by our ongoing and so far fruitless efforts to find somewhere else to move to in the fast-approaching spring, when Miss Letitia Hellingly would emigrating with both her sister Mrs. Hall and her soon-to-be-husband Mr. Frodsham (unfortunately this entailed a visit by said sister, who still smelled frightful and was once again all over Cas like a rash!). The sisters had arranged to sell the house to a family who were returning to England from Australia and wished to have a large family home in the capital, so we knew that we would have to quit, and soon. Fortunately, our next case together provided me with two things, one of which was an (eventual) answer to that particular problem. 

The other thing it brought was the terrifying knowledge as to what those in power could do with it.

+~+~+

Of all the special days of the year that lay between New Year's Day and the following New Year's Eve (apart from our birthdays, which Cas and I celebrate in our own special way), the one I have always reserved a particular loathing for is Valentine's Day. Fortunately Cas had always expressed complete indifference towards it, which I especially appreciated after my revelation as to my real feelings towards him. I thus hoped I could get through this February the fourteenth unscathed. Instead we had a case which would establish us in a new house with which I and my partner would become synonymous, and.... well.

I had hoped (assumed) that this day would be no different to either the thirteenth or the fifteenth. It took about as long for consciousness to return to me in bed that morning before I realized this was the original Forlorn Hope. Cas was in bed with me.

Naked.

It was incredibly unfair that, even before most of my body was fully alert, there was a definite tenting several feet south. 

“I have a case”, he rumbled, “and I would appreciate your help.”

“I would help you any time”, I said instinctively. “You know that. Although..... I always enjoy your efforts at persuading me!”

He grinned. I fully expected him to go to town on me there and then, but to my surprise he slipped out of bed and pulled on his dressing-gown.

“Breakfast is in the other room”, he grinned. “And don't pout! If you help me in this case, then tonight I shall get you pie!”

“You realize that I have principles, and cannot be bought so easily”, I said stiffly.

He gave me a knowing look, and I sighed.

“It had better be from the bakery down the road, then”, I said, getting up myself and pulling on my own dressing-gown.

I had made the mistake of taking my eyes off of him whilst reaching for my gown, so I jumped when I heard his voice right behind me, breathing into my ear.

“It will be.”

The man would be the death of me, I decided. But at least I would die happy! And hopefully after pie!

+~+~+

Having narrowly avoided a heart-attack, I followed him out to find a decent-looking breakfast awaiting my attentions (it quietly amused me that Miss Hellingly, despite having a steady beau, always got Cas' bacon so crisp it could stand up by itself, just as he liked it). My friend was already at the table, reading a letter.

“This promises to be a curious case”, he said. “A Mrs. Harvelle of Baker Street wishes us to investigate claims made by a psychic.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“I thought you said we had had enough of the supernatural after the late and un-lamented Mr. Zachariah Wriothesley?” I said.

“Someone I too do not miss”, Cas said, “but the claims made may in this instance bear some truth. I have a hunch that this case could be important. Would you be able to accompany me?”

Fortunately it was a rare day off from the surgery, where the winter weather had made us busier than usual of late, so I agreed, and after breakfast we headed off to Baker Street.

+~+~+

Mrs. Harvelle owned number 221B, a pleasant house not far from the underground station. From the look of the place, it had clearly been a much larger house at one time which had subsequently been divided into three, her house being on the right as we looked at it. The lady herself was a formidable-looking woman somewhere about forty years of age, and she looked both Cas and myself up and down appraisingly before bidding us enter. I almost felt as if we has passed some sort of unspoken test (had I known then that she not only kept but was fully trained in the use of a rifle, I would have been even gladder!). She ushered us into her own room at the back of the house, where coffee and cakes were waiting for us. Once we were comfortable, she began.

“I read the good doctor's stories about you in the magazine, Mr. Novak”, she said, still eyeing him cautiously. “If you're as good as they say you are, then perhaps you can locate something of mine that has gone missing?”

Pray to the Lord not another fountain-pen, I thought silently.

“My husband.”

Not another fountain-pen, apparently. That even got a raised eyebrow off Cas.

“Surely an errant spouse is a matter for the police?” Cas asked, eyeing a white meringue. If someone had told our prospective client about his sweet tooth, she already had him hooked.

She hesitated.

“What I about to tell you is off the record”, she said, looking almost nervous. “I know from your stories that I can trust the doctor, of course.”

Cas shot me a look which quite clearly said 'you vain bastard!' I did not blush. I did not!

“Of course”, he smiled. 

“It's like this”, she said. “Bill's a policeman at the station in the Street, but he also collects rent money for a friend of his who has property in the upper part of the street, and who's often away. The uniform makes them more likely to cough up, I suppose. He came home from work last Friday as normal, and everything seemed fine. Then he mentioned that he was going to two of Fred's houses to collect the moneys owed. And he never came back.”

“The police have not conducted inquiries?” I asked, surprised.

She looked around again, seemingly fearful of anyone overhearing her.

“Tom, who works at the same station, dropped in yesterday morning on his way into work”, she said quietly. “He told me that someone had sent down an instruction to the station to 'stop looking for William Harvelle'. He only knows that because his son is dating the inspector's secretary, Glenda; she later came round for tea. She said that when the letter came, she thought her chief was going to faint. Just after, he told everyone that another station was taking over the case, but she said he's never sent over any files, so she thinks that was a lie.”

“It is now Tuesday”, Cas mused, “so your husband has been gone for four days, Mrs. Harvelle. The trail is somewhat cold.”

The lady's face fell.

“However”, Cas continued, “there is definitely something odd about this case, and that has caught my interest. If you can supply me with the addresses of Mr. Harvelle's friend's houses, we shall visit them and see what we can discover.”

She smiled in relief.

II

“I do hope you are not raising that dear lady's hopes”, I said as we left. “As you said, the trail is cold by now.”

He looked at me in surprise. There was a long silence between us.

“This case stinks, Dean”, he said bluntly. 

“So how are you going to investigate it?” I asked eagerly.

To my surprise, Cas looked at his watch.

“Mrs. Harvelle said that her husband's friend patrols not far from our home”, he observed. “We must go there and question him.”

“There is something dark about this case, isn't there?” I asked.

Cas managed a small smile. I could feel myself getting more and more worried.

“The London constabulary may have a great variation of quality amongst its members”, he said, “but they protect their own. For this case to have been dropped – for make no bones about it; there will be no official investigation into Mr. Harvelle's disappearance – someone very high up would have had to have given an order. Most probably a politician.”

“But why would a simple constable's disappearance be of interest to a politician?” I asked, bewildered.

Cas stopped and looked at me.

“Because they were almost certainly the ones who made him disappear”, he said quietly, before striding on.

I stood dumbstruck on the pavement for some moments before snapping out of my daydream, and hurrying after him.

+~+~+

Constable Thomas Fellowes was not happy to see us, that was clear. And after the disappearance of his colleague, I could perhaps understand why.

“I don't want to be seen talking to you two”, he muttered, as the three of us sat in the snug at the Dog and Duck. “Look what happened to poor Bill.”

“That is why we waited until you had gone in here”, Cas said. “I am sure the landlord can be persuaded to allow us to leave via the back door. Mrs. Harvelle says you were the last person to see her husband alive. Surely you owe it to her to help find her husband?”

The policeman looked darkly down into his beer.

“Bill's gone”, he muttered.

“What do you mean, gone?” I asked.

The constable sighed, and straightened up. 

“I'll tell you all I know”, he said, “but off the record. All right?”

“Of course”, Cas said. “Go on.”

The constable took a large drink. I could see that he was actually shaking.

“Bill came to my place after he'd been to my second house, number 552”, he said. “He was as white as a sheet. He said everything had gone hunky-dory right down to the last chap in room six. There was a notice on the door saying to go away, but of course he knocked. When no-one answered, he tried to go in, but he was halfway through the door when someone inside grabbed him and threw him out. Bill was a huge bloke, but he said this guy handled him like a pro, even though he was the same size.”

“You said 'was'”, Cas observed. “Why do you think your friend is dead?”

“Coming to that”, the policeman muttered, taking another drink. Cas gestured to me, and I went to the hatch to request a refill for him. “As I said, he came straight to my house, and he looked like death. He said that in the few seconds he'd been inside the room, he'd seen a man sitting up in bed. And the chap's face was bright yellow, with sores all over!”

“Bright yellow?” I asked, returning with his drink, which he accepted gratefully. He nodded.

“I asked him, but he said it was almost like yellow paint”, he said. “Bill was sure the man had some infectious disease, and it made him jumpy. He didn't want to go back home to his missus, but I insisted. Anyways, he was barely out of my gate when a carriage pulled up and three guys got out, and dragged him in. I yelled and rushed out, but two more guys got out and threatened me that they'd have my kids killed if I so much as breathed a word at the station. One had a gun.”

“We are not 'coppers'” Cas said reassuringly. “And we really have taken up too much of your valuable time, constable. My friend and I will leave via the back exit, and I suggest you wait twenty minutes before leaving by the front.”

“But what if...?”

“Have faith, Mr. Fellowes”, Cas said. “Goodbye.”

+~+~+

“There is a man who lives in fear for his life”, I said. 

“Yes”, Cas agreed. “And fortunately, a man of habit.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Because the man who was following him spoke to the landlord, who assured him that Constable Fellowes always spends a good half-hour in the snug”, Cas said.

“I did not see anyone following him”, I said. 

“That is rather the point”, Cas said, a little smugly, I thought. “Dean, I have some messages to send before I return home. Would you care to walk to the post office with me?”

“Of course”, I smiled.

+~+~+

There was a small coffee-shop next door to our local post office, so I sat myself down with a newspaper whilst Cas did whatever he had to do. After fifteen minutes or so he emerged, but walked right by my table to where a corpulent elderly gentleman was sitting, and slammed his hand down hard on the table, rousing him from his half-sleep. I thought this rather rude, but before I could say anything, Cas had leaned over and was whispering something in the elderly gentleman's ear. Whatever it was caused the man to turn a shade of white that nearly had me rushing to his aid, but he stood up with surprising speed and almost sprinted away, an amazing turn of pace for one so old. Cas returned to our table, looking pleased.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“The man who has been following us ever since we left Mrs. Harvelle's house”, Cas said. “Except where we caught the omnibus.”

I stared at him in shock.

“So that was why you insisted we run for the 'bus!” I said. “And why we only went three stops!”

“Well, we were going in the wrong direction, towards Upper Baker Street rather than Constable Fellowes' beat”, Cas explained. “I dare say our shadow had an uncomfortable time ferreting around the two houses before realizing we were elsewhere.”

I finished my coffee.

“So where next?” I asked.

“Home”, was the surprising answer. I stared at my friend.

“Cramer Street?” I asked. “Are you giving up?”

He looked at me as if I were mad.

“No”, he said. “I expect the solution to the crime will be there. It will not be pretty, but we must make the best of a bad job.”

I had no idea when he said that just how true those words were to prove to be.

III

There were two carriages parked outside our house when we arrived, and judging from the expression on Miss Hellingly's face, one or both of the visitors were important. We ascended to our rooms, and I was less than pleased to find them occupied by two people, one of whom was the obnoxious Balthazar Novak. The other man was in his fifties; short, fat and looking far more self-important than any true gentleman ever should. He also wore one of those frankly laughable alpha pendants; I instinctively distrust any alpha who is so insecure that he has to proclaim his status to the world.

The elder Novak shook his head at us.

“You really have gone too far this time, Cassie”, he said mournfully. “This is one case you will have to drop.”

“On whose authority?” I demanded, disliking him even more.

“Her Britannic Majesty's Government”, said the short man, staring at us both. “John Bewick, Minister without Portfolio.”

“Generally the government fixer”, Balthazar explained. “He sorts out political messes. Like the one you blundered into.”

Cas sat in his chair and stared coldly at his brother.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Balthazar”, he growled.

To my surprise, his brother blushed.

“We do not have time for this nonsense!” Mr. Bewick snapped. “How much do you idiots know?”

“I know everything”, Cas said airily. “And unless you agree to every one of my terms, your government will not see out the week.”

There was a cold silence in the room.

“Those are fighting words, Mr. Novak”, Mr. Bewick said, his eyes glinting dangerously. “And you are bluffing.”

Cas turned to look at him, and even our visitor flinched under that iron gaze. There was a long silence before the detective spoke.

“The occupant of Room Six?” he asked.

“Dead, or will be in twenty-four hours at most”, Balthazar Novak said.

“William Harvelle?”

“Seventy-two hours tops.”

Cas nodded, then pressed his long hands together. 

“It is a dark case”, he said, sounding almost rueful. “How did the man come to be in that room in the first place?”

Mr. Bewick snorted.

“His name is – for now, anyway – Ernest Sikes. A minor government clerk in the War Department, he was entrusted with the delivery of some semi-sensitive papers to a certain foreign power.”

“He stole them?” I asked.

Mr. Bewick glared at me for daring to interrupt. I subsided.

“The papers were delivered successfully, and he returned to his flat. However, during the journey he contracted a virulent form of leprosy. The doctor we called said that even the lightest contact would cause someone to become infected. The man we assigned to guard him, Phelps, has his own incurable disease, so he accepted the post in return for an increased pension for his own wife and children.”

“Yet you threatened poor Constable Fellowes' own family”, Cas said coldly.

“We could not risk the man talking!” Mr. Bewick snapped. 

“Is there any danger of the constable being infected?” I asked worriedly.

“None now”, Balthazar Novak assured us. “Symptoms manifest within twenty-four hours of infection, and the victim rarely lasts more than a week. Sikes returned last Wednesday.”

“You will not, of course, tell Mrs. Harvelle of this”, Mr. Bewick said acidly.

To my surprise, Cas chuckled, as did his brother.

“Oh Johnnie!” Balthazar Novak grinned, “how little you know us Novaks. I would wager, doctor, that you stopped at a post office on the way home?”

“We did”, I said. “How did you know?”

Balthazar Novak turned to his colleague. 

“I can guarantee that my brother has set in motion a chain of messages which, if unchecked, will result in at least one major government scandal being front page news by tomorrow at the latest”, he said. He turned to his brother before asking, "which one?”

“The bigamy”, Cas said calmly. “Or perhaps I should say trigamy?”

Mr. Bewick had gone a rather interesting shade of white.

“What do you want, Cassie?” his brother asked patiently.

“To tell father about you and the Pentonvilles”, Cas said calmly. “And if you call me 'Cassie' again, I will!”

“Sorry”, Balthazar Novak muttered (I did not crow, but it was close).

“Better”, his brother said. “Right. First, a written assurance to Constable Fellowes that he and his family are safe from any retribution. He is now under my protection, and any actions taken against him and his will be seen as hostile. I may even take an interest in you personally, Mr. Bewick.”

“Fair enough”, Mr. Bewick said, but I could see he had gone pale. 

“Second, Mrs. Harvelle to continue to receive her husband's salary in the form of a pension. I know she has a teenage daughter, so she will need the money.”

I don't know if....” Mr. Bewick began.

“Done”, Balthazar cut in. His colleague looked at him in surprise, but did not contradict him.

“Third, you will allow William Harvelle to write his wife a letter, explaining that he cannot see her because of the risk of infection.”

“All right”, Balthazar said. “I'll deliver it personally.”

“And lastly, you, Balthazar, may care to know that as well as an attractive teenage daughter, Mrs. Harvelle keeps and is exceptionally well practiced in the use of a rifle!”

“Damnation!”

I smiled.

IV

We showed our unwelcome guests out, and I sighed in relief. 

“Thank heavens they are gone!” I exclaimed, opening the window to let some fresh (or at least London) air in. 

“Indeed”, Cas said quietly.

I looked at him.

“There is something more, isn't there?” I asked.

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

“Mr. Sikes' journey was to Constantinople”, he said.

“I see”, I said, not seeing. Cas looked hard at me.

Suddenly I got it, and all but fell into my chair. Cas moved swiftly to pour me a whisky, and I downed it in one shot.

“The yellow paint really was yellow paint?” I gasped.

He nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “The outbreak of any disease would cause a panic, but the uncovering of a case of the bubonic plague in the capital stirs many memories, even ones over two centuries old. Particularly with the city on edge over these accursed Irish terrorists, such a story could have caused a widespread panic.”

“I get it now”, I said. “Poor Mrs. Harvelle.”

“Yes”, Cas said. “I do hope Balthazar keeps his word about that letter. The bigamy scandal is one of eight I am currently aware of, and that's not even counting the Liberal Unionists!”

I gulped.

+~+~+

In the excitement of the day's events, I had clean forgotten about Cas' promise that morning. I took some throat pastilles down for Miss Hellingly – I had treated her (free of charge, of course) for a cough, and this was just to tidy things up – and when I returned, Cas was nowhere to be seen. Except I then saw the door to his bedroom was slightly open. Assuming it was too early for him to have gone to sleep, I knocked.

“Enter!” I heard him call.

I walked in – and promptly froze. Cas was lying naked on the bed, his erection at full mast, but what really drew my attention was the large apple-pie. Not so much the main pie, which lay on the bedside table, but the generous slice that was placed on Cas' broad chest. There was even a fork next to it.

“Mwah?” I managed. 

“Here is the deal”, he growled. “If you can east the slice off of me without touching me – the fork does not count - then I am at your command, and you get the rest of the pie. But if you touch me, you're mine for the rest of the evening, and I get the pie for myself.”

Yes, he was definitely trying to kill me. I somehow managed to sidle over to him and take the fork without touching him, and cut off a generous piece of the slice.

He groaned. That was not fair! How could I concentrate with that in front of me? Sighing, I bowed to the inevitable, lifting the slice off a surprised Cas and restoring it to the dish. He looked at me in amazement.

“You would choose me over pie?” he asked. “Amazing! Well, what I want, Dean, is....”

I tensed.

“... for you to enjoy your pie.”

I stared at him, as he forked the slice onto a separate plate and handed it and the fork to me. I had tears in my eyes, and he was kind enough not to remark on the fact. Damnation, I truly loved this man!

+~+~+

I was very careful whenever I sat down the following day. And I caught Cas smirking at least once at my piteous state, the bastard!

+~+~+

It was three days later, and we were back in Baker Street. Mrs. Harvelle showed the letter to us, tears in her brown eyes.

“Thank you for arranging everything”, she said, wiping her eyes. “Poor Bill. He was always worried being a copper would get him, yet it was the side-job that did for him.”

“I am to understand that the Metropolitan Police Service is to offer you a full pension?” Cas said politely.

She smiled.

“I can't believe that, seeing as he wasn't even on the job when he copped it”, she said. “But this chap said his actions – reporting straight to the nearest hospital and all that – spared the city an epidemic that could have killed hundreds. It was the least they could do for him.”

“I hope you will not have to move”, I said. “The house is rather large.”

She nodded.

“Bill heard that they were planning to make the station bigger, and thought buying a house with a few rooms would mean we could rent out to the new officers”, she said. “But they decided to expand Edgware Road station instead, so we were stuck. Though I have managed to get tenants for three of the five rooms.”

Cas and I both looked up sharply.

“You are looking for tenants?” I asked.

+~+~+

One month later, we were due to leave Cramer Street and move to the rooms that would be our home for the next two decades. Number 221B Baker Street. But the best-laid plans of mice and men......


End file.
